Ulrich could not understand much amid the medley of voices in the adjoining room, but when Hans Eitelfritz, from Colln on the Spree, asked to be the first one put down on the muster-roll, he distinctly heard the provost oppose the clerk’s scruples, saying warmly “write, write; I’d rather have him with one hand, than ten peevish fellows with two. He has fun and life in him. Advance him some money too, he probably lacks many a piece of armor.” Meantime the wine-cask must have been opened, for the clink of glasses, and soon after loud singing was audible. Just as the second song began, the boy fell asleep, but woke again two hours after, roused by the stillness that had suddenly succeeded the uproar. Hans Eitelfritz had declared himself ready to give a new song in his best vein, and the provost commanded silence. The singing now began; during its continuance Ulrich raised himself higher and higher in bed, not a word escaped him, either of the song itself, or the chorus, which was repeated by the whole party, with exuberant gayety, amid the loud clinking of goblets. Never before had the lad heard such bold, joyous voices; even at the second verse his heart bounded and it seemed as if he must join in the tune, which he had quickly caught. The song ran as follows: Who, who will venture to hold me back? Drums beat, fifes are playing a merry tune! Down hammer, down pen, what more need I, alack I go to seek fortune, good fortune! Oh father, mother, dear sister mine, Blue-eyed maid at the bridge-house, my fair one. Weep not, ye must not at parting repine, I go to seek fortune, good fortune! The cannon roar loud, the sword flashes bright, Who’ll dare meet the stroke of my falchion? Close-ranked, horse and foot in battle unite, In war, war, dwells fortune, good fortune! The city is taken, the booty mine; With red gold, I’ll deck--I know whom; Pair maids’ cheeks burn red, red too glows the wine, Fortune, Paradise of good fortune! Deep, scarlet wounds, brave breasts adorn, Impoverished, crippled age I shun A death of honor, ‘mid glory won, This too is good fortune, good fortune! A soldier-lad composed this ditty Hans Eitelfritz he, fair Colln’s son, His kindred dwell in the goodly city, But he himself in fortune, good fortune! “He himself in fortune, good fortune,” sang Ulrich also, and while, amid loud shouts of joy, the glasses again clinked against each other, he repeated the glad “fortune, good fortune.” Suddenly, it flashed upon him like a revelation, “Fortune,” that might be the word! Such exultant joy, such lark-like trilling, such inspiring promises of happiness had never echoed in any word, as they now did from the “fortune,” the young lansquenet so gaily and exultantly uttered.