Perhaps, only perhaps; for another was seeking with dangerous means to obtain control of the army.
This was Sergeant-Major and Quartermaster Zorrillo, an excellent and popular soldier, who had been chosen Eletto after the battle of Mook-Heath, but voluntarily resigned his office at the first serious opposition he encountered.
It was said that he had done this by his wife's counsel, and this woman was Ulrich's most dangerous foe.
Zorrillo belonged to another regiment, but Ulrich had long known him and his companion, the "campsibyl." Wine was sold in the quartermaster's tent, which, before the outbreak of the mutiny, had been the rendezvous of the officers and chaplains.
The sibyl entertained the officers with her gay conversation, while they drank or sat at the gaining-table; she probably owed her name to the skill she displayed in telling fortunes by cards.

The common soldiers liked her too, because she took care of their sick wives and children.
Navarrete preferred to spend his time in his own regiment, so he did not meet the Zorrillos often until the mutiny at Schouwen and on the march through Brabant.

He had never sought, and now avoided them; for he knew the sibyl was leaving no means untried to secure her partner's election.
Therefore he disliked them; yet he could not help occasionally entering their tent, for the leaders of the mutiny held their counsels there.
Zorrillo always received him courteously; but his companion gazed at him so intently and searchingly, that an anxious feeling, very unusual to the bold fellow, stole over him.
He could not help asking himself whether he had seen her before, and when the thought that she perhaps resembled his mother, once entered his mind, he angrily rejected it.
The day before she had offered to tell his fortune; but he refused point-blank, for surely no good tidings could come to him from those lips.
To-day she had asked what his Christian name was, and for the first time in years he remembered that he was also called "Ulrich." Now he was nothing but "Navarrete," to himself and others.

He lived solely for himself, and the more reserved a man is, the more easily his Christian name is lost to him.
As, years before, he had told the master that he was called nothing but Ulrich, he now gave the harsh answer: "I am Navarrete, that's enough!".