induced to leave the anvil, even
when evening had closed in; if it was pleasant to sit over the beer, he
remained till after the last man had gone. While working, he was as mute
as the dead to everything that was passing around him; in the tavern
he rarely spoke, and then said only a few words, yet the young artists,
sculptors, workers in gold and students liked to see the stout drinker
and good listener at the table, and the members of his guild only
marvelled how the sensible fellow, who joined in no foolish pranks, and
worked in such good earnest, held aloof from them to keep company with
these hairbrained folk, and remained a Papist.

He might have taken possession of the shop on the market-place directly
after his father's death, but could not arrange his departure so
quickly, and it was fully eight months before he left Nuremberg.

On the high-road before Schwabach a wagon, occupied by some strolling
performers, overtook the traveller. They belonged to the better class,
for they appeared before counts and princes, and were seven in number.
The father and four sons played the violin, viola and reboc, and the two
daughters sang to the lute and harp. The old man invited Adam to take
the eighth place in the vehicle, so he counted his pennies, and room
was made for him opposite Flora, called by her family Florette. The
musicians were going to the fair at Nordlingen, and the smith enjoyed
himself so well with them, that he remained several days after reaching
the goal of the journey. When he at last went away Florette wept, but
he walked straight on until noon, without looking back. Then he lay down
under a blossoming apple-tree, to rest and eat some lunch, but the lunch
did not taste well; and when he shut his eyes he could not sleep, for
he thought constantly of Florette. Of course! He had parted from her far
too soon, and an eager longing seized upon him for the young girl, with
her red lips and luxuriant hair. This hair was a perfect golden-yellow;
he knew it well, for she had often combed and braided it in the
tavern-room beside the straw where they all slept.

He yearned to hear her laugh too, and would have liked to see her weep
again.

Then he remembered the desolate smithy in the narrow market-place and
the dreary home, recollected that he was thirty years old, and still had
no wife.

A little wife of his own! A wife like Florette! Seventeen years old,
a complexion like milk and blood, a creature full of