Trautchen appeared and whispered: "Gently, children, the young lady has a
headache."

There were many bottles in the cart which were warranted to cure the
ailment, and the famous Morpurgo seemed to be a very sensible man, no
buffoon like the other mountebanks. The wife of the baker, Wilhelm
Peterssohn, who stood beside him, a woman he knew well, said to her
companion that the doctor's remedies were good, they had quickly cured
her godmother of a bad attack of erysipelas.

The words matured the boy's resolution. Fleeting visions of the sword,
the cross-bow, the gingerbread and the nice little brothers once more
rose before his mind, but with a powerful effort of the will he thrust
them aside, held his breath that he might not smell the alluring odor of
the cakes, and hastily approached the cart. Here he unfastened his purse
from his belt, poured its contents into his hand, showed the coins to the
doctor, who had fixed his black eyes kindly on the odd customer, and
asked: "Will this be enough?"

"For what?"

"For the medicine to cure headache."

The quack separated the little coins in Adrian's hand with his
forefinger, and answered gravely: "No, my son, but I am always glad to
advance the cause of knowledge. There is still a great deal for you to
learn at school, and the headache will prevent it. Here are the drops
and, as it's you, I'll give this prescription for another arcanum into
the bargain."