This altered matters.  “Follow me,” said Hoffman.

The two entered the office.

“Can you write?”

“A little, Herr.”

“Then write your name on this piece of paper and that.  Each night you will present yours with the number of pounds, which will be credited to you.  You must bring it back each morning.  If you lose it you will be paid nothing for your labor.”

Dietrich wrote his name twice.  It was rather hard work, for he screwed up his mouth and cramped his fingers.  Still, Hoffman was not wholly satisfied with his eyes.

“Gottlieb,” he said to one of the men, “take him to terrace ninety-eight.  That hasn’t been touched yet.  We’ll see what sort of workman he is.”  He spoke to Dietrich again.  “What is Gretchen to you?” For Hoffman knew Gretchen; many a time she had filled her basket and drawn her crowns.

“She is my sweetheart, Herr.”  And there was no mockery in the youth’s eyes as he said this.

“Take him along, Gottlieb.  You will have no further use for this letter from her highness, so I’ll keep it and frame it and hang it in the office.”  Which showed that Hoffman himself had had lessons in the gentle art of mockery.

Terrace ninety-eight was given over to small grapes; thus, many bunches had to be picked to fill the basket.  But Dietrich went to work with a will.  His fingers were deft and his knife was sharp; and by midsun he had turned his sixth basket, which was fair work, considering.

As Hoffman did not feed his employees, Dietrich was obliged to beg from his co-workers.  Very willingly they shared with him their coarse bread and onions.  He ate the bread and stuffed the onions in his pocket.  There was no idling.  As soon as the frugal meal was over, the peasants trooped away to their respective terraces.  Once more the youth was alone.  He set down his basket and laughed.  Was there ever such a fine world?  Had there ever been a more likable adventure?  The very danger of it was the spice which gave it flavor.  He stretched out his arms as if to embrace this world which appeared so rosal, so joyous to his imagination.

“Thanks, thanks!  You have given me youth, and I accept it,” he said aloud, perhaps addressing that mutable goddess who presides over all follies.  “Regret it in my old age?  Not I!  I shall have lived for one short month.  Youth was given to us to enjoy, and I propose to press the grape to the final drop.  And when I grow old this adventure shall be the tonic to wipe out many wrinkles of care.  A mad fling, a brimming cup, one short merry month—­and then, the reckoning!  How I hate the thought!”

He sobered; the laughter went out of his eyes and face.  Changeful twenty, where so many paths reach out into the great world, paths straight and narrow, of devious turnings which end at precipices, of blind alleys which lead nowhere and close in behind!

“I love her, I love her!” His face grew bright again, and the wooing blood ran tingling in his veins.  “Am I a thief, a scoundrelly thief, because I have that right common to all men, to love one woman?  Some day I shall suffer for this; some day my heart shall ache; so be it!”