A loud laugh from the burghers of Pfullingen apprised the stranger in the balcony, that the jealous upholder of domestic rights was not so well able to administer justice in his own house. He coloured up, and murmured some unintelligible words as he put his can to his mouth. The pedlar, however, who, as a stranger, thought it not courteous to join in the laugh, took his part: "Yes, indeed, the Duke was quite in the right, for he had the power of hanging Hutten upon the spot, without giving him a chance of his life in fair honourable fight. Is he not president of the Westphalian chair, and of the secret tribunal, which gives him the power of dispatching villanous fellows without further ceremony? Had he not the best proof of his treachery before his eyes? Have you ever heard a pretty little song upon that subject? I'll sing a couple of verses, if you like: "In the forest he turn'd him to Hutten, to know, What't was on his hand that glittered so?" "Lord Duke, it is this little ring you see, This ring which my sweet love gave to me." "Hey, Hans, by my troth thou art nobly drest, A chain of gold, too, lies on thy breast." "That, too, my true love gave so free, A pledge that she would remember me." "And then it goes on: "Oh! Hutten, away! nor spare the goad, The Duke's eye rolls with fury wode; Away, whilst there is yet time to fly, The scabbard is voided, his sword is on high." The fat man put on a serious face, and said, "I would not advise you to go on; such songs in public houses, in these times, are dangerous; they cannot serve the Duke's cause at present. The confederates being round about us, some one of them might easily overhear it," he added, as he cast a scrutinizing glance at Albert, "and then Pfullingen might have to pay another hundred ducats contribution." "God knows, you are in the right," said the pedlar; "it is no longer the case, as it used to be, when one could freely speak his mind, and sing a song over his glass; but now a man must always be on the look out, to see that a partizan of the Duke's does not sit on one side, or a Leaguist on the other; but, in spite of Bavarian or Swabian, I'll sing the last verse: "There stands an oak in Schönbuch wood, It shoots aloft and it spreads abroad; And centuries hence recorded shall be, That the Duke hang'd Hutten on that very tree."