Ulrich too was startled.

The master's intention of leaving Madrid had pleased him, for it would
withdraw the former from the danger that might result from his own
imprudence. But as the strife in the anteroom grew louder, he already
saw the alguazils forcing their way into the studio.

Moor went towards the door, but it was thrown wide open ere he reached
it, and a bearded lansquenet crossed the threshold.

Laughing scornfully, he shouted a few derisive words at the French
servants who had tried to stop him, then turning to the artist, and
throwing back his broad chest, he held out his arms towards Moor, with
passionate ardor, exclaiming: "These French flunkies--the varlets, tried
to keep me from waiting upon my benefactor, my friend, the great Moor,
to show my reverence for him. How you stare at me, Master! Have you
forgotten Christmas-day at Emmendingen, and Hans Eitelfritz from Colln
on the Spree?"

Every trace of anxiety instantly vanished from the face of the artist,
who certainly had not recognized in this braggart the modest companion
of those days.

Eitelfritz was strangely attired, so gaily and oddly dressed, that he
could not fail to be conspicuous even among his comrades. One leg of his
breeches, striped with red and blue, reached far below his knee, while
the other, striped with yellow and green, enclosed the upper part of the
limb, like a full muff. Then how many puffs, slashes and ribbons adorned
his doublet! What gay plumes decked the pointed edge of his cap.

Moor gave the faithful fellow a friendly welcome, and expressed his
pleasure at meeting him so handsomely equipped. He held his head higher
now, than he used to do under the wagon-tilt and in quarters, and
doubtless he had earned a right to do so.

"The fact is," replied Hans Eitelfritz, "I've received double pay for
the past nine months, and take a different view of life from that of a
poor devil of a man-at-arms who goes fighting through the country. You
know the ditty:

"'There is one misery on earth,
Well, well for him, who knows it not!
With beggar's staff to wander forth,
Imploring alms from spot to spot.'

"And the last verse:

"'And shall we never receive our due?
Will our sore trials never end?
Leader to victory, be true,
Come quickly, death, beloved friend.'

"I often sang it in those days; but now: What does the world cost? A
thousand zechins is not too much