What I am, I have made myself, and can defend with honor, even to the old man.
He carries heavy guns, I know; but I am not accustomed to shoot with feather balls!" "Ulrich, Ulrich! He is an old man, and your father!" "I will remember that, as soon as he calls me his son." One of the count's servants showed Ulrich the way to the smith's house.
Adam had entirely given up the business of horseshoeing, for nothing was to be seen in the ground floor of the high, narrow house, except the large door, and a window on each side.

Behind the closed one at the right were several pieces of armor, beautifully embossed, and some artistically-wrought iron articles.

The left-hand one was partly open, granting entrance to the autumn sunshine.

Ulrich dismissed the servant, took the mementos of his mother in his hand, and listened to the hammer-strokes, that echoed from within.
The familiar sound recalled pleasant memories of his childhood and cooled his hot blood.

Count Philipp was right.