could hardly lift; he handled with the same ease master Martin's adz. Then continuing his feats of strength, he made a pair of heavy tuns spin round with the same ease that he would have handled simple barrels. At last, taking in both hands a solid stave which had not been thinned by the shave—"This," exclaimed he—"this is good oak, and that ought to snap like glass;" and suiting the action to the word, he broke the stave as easily as if it were a shingle, on the edge of the grindstone.
"By the relics of Saint Sebald, stop there, if you please, my friend!" exclaimed master Martin. "Would you not, if I let you, break the bottom of this big tun, and split to pieces my whole workshop? Why don't you sieze that beam and beat the whole house into ruins! And don't you wish me to get for you, as a shave, the sword of Roland, the knight, which is kept at the City Hall of Nuremberg!"
"Truly yes, if you please," answered the young man, casting on master Martin a glance full of fire; but he immediately lowered his eyes, and continued in a softer voice—"I only thought, dear master, that you might have need, for your heavier work, of a vigorous workman, and I have, perhaps, exceeded in your eyes the bounds of propriety. I beg you will pardon me, and allow me to remain with you, to labor as rudely as you may be pleased to require."
Master Martin grew more and more surprised. The sudden calmness of the young man produced on him an undefinable sensation. He could not tire with looking at his regularly beautiful features, which shadowed forth a soul of the purest honesty. He thought he could discover, in his physiognomy, some resemblance with that of a man whom he had formerly known and venerated, but whose remembrance only recalled to him a remote likeness. He at last acceded to the entreaties of the young workman, with the condition that he should immediately produce the recommendations of the masters with whom he had learned the trade of cooper, and received the first degree.
