the masters of Schouwen fared.

Zorrillo offered the sergeant-major a chair, and after the latter had
raised and emptied two beakers from the barmaid's pewter waiter in quick
succession, he glanced around the circle of his rebel comrades. Some he
had met before in various countries, and shook hands with them. Then he
fixed his eyes on Ulrich, pondering where and under what standard he had
seen this magnificent, fair-haired warrior.

Navarrete recognizing the merry lansquenet, Hans Eitelfritz of Colln on
the Spree, held out his hand, and cried in the Spanish language, which
the lansquenet had also used:

"You are Hans Eitelfritz! Do you remember Christmas in the Black Forest,
Master Moor, and the Alcazar in Madrid?"

"Ulrich, young Master Ulrich! Heavens and earth!" cried Eitelfritz;--but
suddenly interrupted himself; for the sibyl, who had risen from the
table to bring the envoy, with her own hands, a larger goblet of wine,
dropped the beaker close beside him.

Zorrillo and he hastily sprung to support the tottering woman, who was
almost fainting. But she recovered herself, waving them back with a mute
gesture.

All eyes were fixed upon her, and every one was startled; for she stood
as if benumbed, her bright, youthful face had suddenly become aged and
haggard. "What is the matter?" asked Zorrillo anxiously. Recovering her
self-control, she answered hastily "The thunder, the storm...."

Then, with short, light steps, she went back to the table, and as she
resumed her seat the bell for evening prayers was heard outside.

Most of the company rose to obey the summons.

"Good-bye till to-morrow morning, Sergeant! The election will take place
early to-morrow."

"A Dios, a Dios, hasta mas ver, Sibila, a Dios!" was loudly shouted, and
soon most of the guests had left the tent.

Those who remained behind were scattered among the different tables.
Ulrich sat at one alone with Hans Eitelfritz.

The lansquenet had declined Zorrillo's invitation to join him; an old
friend from Madrid was present, with whom he wished to talk over happier
days. The other willingly assented; for what he had intended to say
to his companions was against Ulrich and his views. The longer the
sergeant-major detained him the better. Everything that recalled
Master Moor was dear to Ulrich, and as soon as he was alone with Hans
Eitelfritz, he again greeted him in a strange mixture of Spanish
and German. He had forgotten his home, but still reta