“Right, right!” replied Wilhelm eagerly; “he has a fine ear and the best voice in the choir.” “The matter must be duly considered,” replied the captain, “and you, if anybody, are the person to tell us what he can accomplish in your art. If you have time this evening, Herr Wilhelm, come to me at the watch house, I should like to speak to you. To be sure, you’ll hardly find me before ten o’clock. I have a stricture in my throat again, and on such days--Roland, my fore man!” The captain cleared his throat loudly and vehemently. “I am at your service,” said Wilhelm, “for the night is long, but I won’t let you go now until I know what you mean by your fore man Roland.” “Very well, it’s not much of a story, and perhaps you won’t understand. Come in here; I can tell it better over a mug of beer, and the legs rebel if they’re deprived of rest four nights in succession.” When the two men were seated opposite to each other in the tap-room, the fencing-master pushed his moustache away from his lips, and began: “How long ago is it-? We’ll say fifteen years, since I was riding to Haarlem with the innkeeper Aquarius, who as you know, is a learned man and has all sorts of old stuff and Latin manuscripts. He talks well, and when the conversation turned upon our meeting with many things in life that we fancy we have already seen, remarked that this could be easily explained, for the human soul was an indestructible thing, a bird that never dies. So long as we live it remains with us, and when we die flies away and is rewarded or punished according to its deserts; but after centuries, which are no more to the Lord than the minutes in which I empty this fresh mug--one more, bar-maid--the merciful Father releases it again, and it nestles in some new born child. This made me laugh; but he was not at all disturbed and told the story of an old Pagan, a wonderfully wise chap, who knew positively that his soul had formerly lodged in the body of a mighty hero. This same hero also remembered exactly where, during his former life, he had hung his shield, and told his associates. They searched and found the piece of armor, with the initials of the Christian and surname which had belonged to the philosopher in his life as a soldier, centuries before. This puzzled me, for you see--now don’t laugh--something had formerly happened to me very much like the Pagan’s experience. I don’t care much for books, and from a child have always read the same one. I inherited it from my dead father and the work is not printed, but written. I’ll show it to you some time--it contains the history of the brave Roland. Often, when absorbed in these beautiful and true stories, my cheeks have grown as red as fire, and I’ll confess to you, as I did to my travelling-companion: If I’m not mistaken, I’ve sat with King Charles at the board, or I’ve worn Roland’s chain armor in battle and in the tourney. I believe I have seen the Moorish king, Marsilia, and once