He had forgotten his home, but still retained a partial recollection of his native language.

Every one supposed him to be a Spaniard, and he himself felt as if he were one.
Hans Eitelfritz had much to tell Ulrich; he had often met Moor in Antwerp, and been kindly received in his studio.
What pleasure it afforded Navarrete to hear from the noble artist, how he enjoyed being able to speak German again after so many years, difficult as it was.

It seemed as if a crust melted away from his heart, and none of those present had ever seen him so gay, so full of youthful vivacity.

Only one person knew that he could laugh and play noisily, and this one was the beautiful woman at the long table, who knew not whether she should die of joy, or sink into the earth with shame.
She had taken the year old infant from the basket.

It was a pale, puny little creature, whose father had fallen in battle, and whose mother had deserted it.
The handsome standard-bearer yonder was called Ulrich! He must be her son! Alas, and she could only cast stolen glances at him, listen by stealth to the German words that fell from the beloved lips.