ined a partial
recollection of his native language. Every one supposed him to be a
Spaniard, and he himself felt as if he were one.

Hans Eitelfritz had much to tell Ulrich; he had often met Moor in
Antwerp, and been kindly received in his studio.

What pleasure it afforded Navarrete to hear from the noble artist,
how he enjoyed being able to speak German again after so many years,
difficult as it was. It seemed as if a crust melted away from his heart,
and none of those present had ever seen him so gay, so full of youthful
vivacity. Only one person knew that he could laugh and play noisily, and
this one was the beautiful woman at the long table, who knew not whether
she should die of joy, or sink into the earth with shame.

She had taken the year old infant from the basket. It was a pale, puny
little creature, whose father had fallen in battle, and whose mother had
deserted it.

The handsome standard-bearer yonder was called Ulrich! He must be her
son! Alas, and she could only cast stolen glances at him, listen by
stealth to the German words that fell from the beloved lips. Nothing
escaped her notice, yet while looking and listening, her thoughts
wandered to a far distant country, long vanished days; beside the
bearded giant she saw a beautiful, curly-haired child; besides the
man's deep voice she heard clear, sweet childish tones, that called her
"mother" and rang out in joyous, silvery laughter.

The pale child in her arms often raised its little hand to its cheek,
which was wet with the tears of the woman; who tended it. How hard, how
unspeakably, terribly hard it was for this woman, with the youthful face
and white locks, to remain quiet! How she longed to start up and call
joyously to the child, the man, her lover's enemy, but her own, own
Ulrich:

"Look at me, look at me! I am your mother. You are mine! Come, come to
my heart! I will never leave you more!"

Ulrich now laughed heartily again, not suspecting what was passing in
a mother's heart, close beside him; he had no eyes for her, and only
listened to the jests of the German lansquenet, with whom he drained
beaker after beaker.

The strange child served as a shield to protect the camp-sibyl from
her son's eyes, and also to conceal from him that she was watching,
listening, weeping. Eitelfritz talked most and made one joke after
another; but she did not laugh, and only wished he would stop and let
Ulrich speak, that she might be permitted to hear his