I laid him down, and
put his cross on his breast that I had seen him kissing many a time
that evening; and I crossed his hands, and wiped the blood from them
and his face. And, lady, he had put on his ring; I trust the robber
caitiff's may have left it to him in his grave. And so I came forth,
walking soft, and opening the door in no small dread, not of the
snoring swine, but of the dogs without. But happily they were still,
and even by the door I saw all our poor fellows stark and stiff."
"My father?" asked Christina.
"Ay! with his head cleft open by the Graf himself. He died like a
true soldier, lady, and we have lost the best head among us in him.
Well, the knave that should have watched the horses was as drunken as
the rest of them, and I made a shift to put the bridle on the white
mare and ride off."
Such was the narrative of the Schneiderlein, and all that was left to
Christina was the picture of her husband's dying effort to guard her,
and the haunting fancy of those long hours of speechless agony on the
floor of the hostel, and how direful must have been his fears for
her.
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