Nevertheless, we made the steep ascent of the hill over the cobblestones to the ancient castle. It was like an excursion into medieval legend. Nothing seems to have changed for centuries. As we passed the house of Durer, I would not have been in the least surprised to have seen the creator of the immortal “Knight and Death” standing at his own front door. The red brick houses and their pointed gables made the background for a fairy-tale. Fountains plashed gently in the morning sunshine. Slender trees were shedding golden leaves. The music of young laughter came to the ear. About two-score children were dancing round an aged beggar, barely covered in the most picturesque rags. Like a ghost who had escaped from a medieval legend, he was playing on a reed whistle and the children of the side streets were cavorting to his shrill melody and, in the agelong spirit of mischief, mocking his crazy gestures.