“There you were wise, my friend,” declared the dealer, who had willingly made the trade, for the crown was worth thirty thousand thalers; “and if any others find these shining things somewhat heavy to carry, come to me. I will give you good round coin for them.” “So? Then mayhap we may strike a bargain,” said a Strassburger. “Would ten florins be too much for these twelve bright goblets? They are much too heavy for gold, but any one not knowing would easily buy them of you for that.” The trader weighed the cups in his hand. They might have been worth eighty marks in gold. “Truly they are heavy enough,” he said doubtfully, “and I dare not overload my cart, for who knows what profitable bargains are yet to be made? Yet I would not have your ill will, and since it is you I will do the best I can for you. Come, let us say half a guilder apiece.” The Strassburger looked doubtfully at his companions. “If they should be gold, though—” “Nay, be not a fool, Thomas. You are not likely to have another offer as good as that. What if they be really gold? Gold is as cheap here as hazel nuts with us at Martigny.” At this the Strassburger hesitated no longer, but gladly pocketed his six guilders, and the trader went on his way. “’Tis like the masqueraders at carnival time,” he said to himself as he met a group of cowherds with costly garments of velvet, silk, and cloth of gold flung over their smockfrocks. “Look at Ruodi! Is he not fine?” gleefully shouted one, pointing to the leader of the band, who wore on his head a costly cap with waving plumes, while upon his breast gleamed the gold chain of the noble order of the Golden Fleece. In another part of the camp a party of victorious Switzers quarrelled and shouted over some casks of Burgundy which they were drawing into gold and silver flagons. “Will you hold your good-for-nothing tongues or shall I read you a text?” shouted one drunken fellow, waving aloft the Duke’s own prayer-book, bound in red velvet. “Give us a song, Werni,” cried several voices, “that will stop their noise. Come, strike up!” “‘Strike up—strike up!’ That is easily said,” growled Werni; “for my part I would rather drink than sing.” Nevertheless he felt flattered by the challenge, and without further protest began: “Your camp with all its treasures rare Has fallen to the Switzers’ share: Oh fie! Duke Charles, for shame!” “Yes—fie! Duke Charles, for shame!” all joined in rousing chorus. “Should such disgrace not break your pride, Come back, fresh armies at your side, We’ll serve you just the same.” “We’ll serve you just the same,” echoed the singers enthusiastically. Then others gathering about the rude minstrel took up the strain, till far and wide resounded the triumphant notes of the ballad of the battle of Granson. How every heart swelled as Werni, hoarse and weary, concluded: