The fencing-master raised the jug of beer which Wilhelm’s mother filled freshly every day and placed in her darling’s room, and took a long pull.  Then wiping his moustache, he said: 

That did me good, and I needed it.  The men wanted to go out pleasuring and omit their drill, but we forced them to go through it, Junker von Warmond, Duivenvoorde and I. Who knows how soon it may be necessary to show what we can do.  Roland, my fore man, such imprudence is like a cudgel, against which one can do nothing with Florentine rapiers, clever tierce and quarto.  My wheat is destroyed by the hail.”

“Then let it he, and see if the barley and clover don’t do better,” replied Wilhelm gaily, tossing vetches and grains of wheat to a large dove that had alighted on the parapet of his tower.

“It eats, and what use is it?” cried Allertssohn, looking at the dove.  “Herr von Warmond, a young man after God’s own heart, has just brought me two falcons; do you want to see bow I tame them?”

“No, Captain, I have enough to do with my music and my doves.”

“That is your affair.  The long-necked one yonder is a queer-looking fellow.”

“And of what country is he probably a native?  There he goes to join the others.  Watch him a little while and then answer me.”

“Ask King Soloman that; he was on intimate terms with birds.”

“Only watch him, you’ll find out presently.”

“The fellow has a stiff neck, and holds his head unusually high.”

“And his beak?”

“Curved, almost like a hawk’s!  Zounds, why does the creature strut about with its toes so far apart?  Stop, bandit!  He’ll peck that little dove to death.  As true as I live, the saucy rascal must be a Spaniard!”

“Right, it is a Spanish dove.  It flew to me, but I can’t endure it and drive it away; for I keep only a few pairs of the same breed and try to get the best birds possible.  Whoever raises many different kinds in the same cote, will accomplish nothing.”

“That gives food for thought.  But I believe you haven’t chosen the handsomest species.”

“No, sir.  What you see are a cross between the carrier and tumblers, the Antwerp breed of carrier pigeons.  Bluish, reddish, spotted birds.  I don’t care for the colors, but they must have small bodies and large wings, with broad quills on their flag-feathers, and above all ample muscular strength.  The one yonder stop, I’ll catch him—­is one of my best flyers.  Try to lift his pinions.”

“Heaven knows the little thing has marrow in its bones!  How the tiny wing pinches; the falcons are not much stronger.”

“It’s a carrier-dove too, that finds its way alone.”

“Why do you keep no white tumblers?  I should think they could be watched farthest in their flight.”

“Because doves fare like men.  Whoever shines very brightly and is seen from a distance, is set upon by opponents and envious people, and birds of prey pounce upon the white doves first.  I tell you, Captain, whoever has eyes in his head, can learn in a dove-cote how things come to pass among Adam and Eve’s posterity on earth.”