Time is precious! Magister Kochel had also doubtless said this to himself, as soon as Ulrich left him the day before.

He had been hired by a secret power, with which however he was well acquainted, to watch the Netherland artist and collect evidence for a charge--a gravamen--against him.
The spying and informing, which he had zealously pursued for years in the service of the Holy Inquisition, he called "serving the Church," and hoped, sooner or later, to be rewarded with a benefice; but even if this escaped him, informing brought him as large an income as he required, and had become the greatest pleasure, indeed, a necessity of life to him.
He had commenced his career in Cologne as a Dominican friar, and remained in communication with some of his old brethren of the Order.
The monks, Sutor and Stubenrauch, whom Moor had hospitably received in his wagon at the last Advent season but one, sometimes answered Kochel's letters of enquiry.
The latter had long known that the unusual favor the king showed the artist was an abomination, not only to the heads of the Holy Inquisition, but also to the ambassadors and court dignitaries, yet Moor's quiet, stainless life afforded no handle for attack.

Soon, however, unexpected aid came to him from a distance.
A letter arrived, dictated by Sutor, and written by Stubenrauch in the fluent bad Latin used by him and those of his ilk.

Among other things it contained an account of a journey, in which much was said about Moor, whom the noble pair accused of having a heretical and evil mind.

Instead of taking them to the goal of the journey, as he had promised, he had deserted them in a miserable tavern by the way-side, among rough, godless lansquenets, as the mother of Moses abandoned her babe.