conjured up a vision of the lad's character, home, and the school from
which he had run away.

He called him the son of a noble of moderate property. In this he was
of course mistaken, but in other respects perceived, with wonderful
acuteness, how Ulrich had hitherto been circumstanced, nay even declared
that he was a motherless child, a fact proved by many things he lacked.
The boy had been sent to school too late--Pellicanus was a good Latin
scholar--and perhaps had been too early initiated into the mysteries of
riding, hunting, and woodcraft.

The artist, merely by the boy's appearance, gained a more accurate
knowledge of his real nature, than the jester gathered from his
investigations and inferences.

Ulrich pleased him, and when he saw the pen-and-ink sketch on the back of
the exercise, which Pellicanus showed him, he smiled and felt
strengthened in the resolve to interest himself still more in the
handsome boy, whom fate had thrown in his way. He now only needed to
discover who the lad's parents were, and what had driven him from the
school.

The surgeon of the little town had bled Ulrich, and soon after he fell
into a sound sleep, and breathed quietly. The artist and jester now
dined together, for the monks had finished their meal long before, and
were taking a noonday nap. Moor ordered roast meat and wine for the
Lansquenet, who sat modestly in one corner of the large public room,
gazing sadly at his wounded arm.

"Poor fellow!" said the jester, pointing to the handsome young man.