When he returned, Wilhelm and Junker von Warmond were so engaged in eager conversation, that they did not notice his entrance.  The musician was speaking of Italy, and Allertssohn heard him exclaim impetuously: 

“Whoever has once seen that country can never forget it, and when I am sitting on the house-top with my doves, my thoughts only too often fly far away with them, and my eyes no longer see our broad, monotonous plains and grey, misty sky.”

“Oh! ho!  Meister Wilhelm,” interrupted the captain, throwing himself into the arm-chair and stretching out his booted legs.  “Oh! ho!  This time I’ve discovered the crack in your brain.  Italy, always Italy!  I know Italy too, for I’ve been in Brescia, looking for good steel sword-blades for the Prince and other nobles, I crossed the rugged Apennines and went to Florence to see fine pieces of armor.  From Livorno I went by sea to Genoa, where I obtained chased gold and silverwork for shoulder-belts and sheaths.  Truth is truth the brown-skinned rascals can do fine work.  But the country—­the country!  Roland, my fore man—­how any sensible man can prefer it to ours is more than I understand.”

“Holland is our mother,” replied von Warmond.  “As good sons we believe her the best of women; yet we can admit, without shame, that there are more beautiful ones in the world.”

“Do you blow that trumpet too?” exclaimed the fencing-master, pushing his glass angrily further upon the table.  Did you ever cross the Alps?”

“No, but—­”

“But you believe the color-daubers of the artist guild, whose eyes are caught by the blue of the sky and sea, or the musical gentry who allow themselves to be deluded by the soft voices and touching melodies there, but you would do well to listen to a quiet man too for once.”

“Go on, Captain.”

“Very well.  And if anybody can get an untruthful word out of me, I’ll pay his score till the Day of Judgment.  I’ll begin the story at the commencement.  First you must cross the horrible Alps.  There you see barren, dreary rocks, cold snow, wild glacier torrents on which no boat can be used.  Instead of watering meadows, the mad waves fling stones on their banks.  Then we reach the plains, where it is true many kinds of plants grow.  I was there in June, and made my jokes about the tiny fields, where small trees stood, serving as props for the vines.  It didn’t look amiss, but the heat, Junker, the heat spoiled all pleasure.  And the dirt in the taverns, the vermin, and the talk about bravos, who shed the blood of honest Christians in the dark for a little paltry money.  If your tongue dries up in your mouth, you’ll find nothing but hot wine, not a sip of cool beer.  And the dust, gentlemen, the frightful dust.  As for the steel in Brescia—­it’s worthy of all honor.  But the feather was stolen from my hat in the tavern, and the landlord devoured onions as if they were white bread.  May God punish me if a single piece of honest beef, such as my wife can set before me every day—­and we don’t live like princes—­ever came between my teeth.