Rova, and he drew near curiously to examine the marks.
“Why, by the Pope!” he exclaimed. “It is myself—my very self as I stand here with my musket! Thou canst indeed draw, little stranger! Who art thou?”
“I am a Glipper,” repeated Gysbert monotonously. “I sell healing herbs. I also can draw.”
“Art thou indeed a Glipper? Well, that is not so bad! And look thou here! Canst draw a good portrait of me on fine paper?”
“Aye, I can!” answered Gysbert in his adopted nasal tone.
“Well, thou hast evidently not all the wits that God usually gives us, but thou shalt try,” said De Rova, and he drew from his belongings a sheet of paper, and what stood for a pencil in those days.
“Draw me well, little Glipper! Make of me a fine figure, for I wish to send it to my sweetheart in Madrid, and we will see what can be done for thee!” Drawing himself up
