There, on the green meadow, lay on the
one hand Ebbo's cream-coloured charger, with his master under him, on
the other the large figure of the count; and several other prostrate
forms likewise struggled on the sand and pebbles of the strand, or on
the turf.
"Ay," said the architect, who had turned with Friedel, "'twas a
gallant feat, Sir Friedel, and I trust there is no great harm done.
Were it the mere dint of the count's sword, your brother will be
little the worse."
"Ebbo! Ebbo mine, look up!" cried Friedel, leaping from his horse,
and unclasping his brother's helmet.
"Friedel!" groaned a half-suffocated voice. "O take away the horse."
One or two of the artisans were at hand, and with their help the
dying steed was disengaged from the rider, who could not restrain his
moans, though Friedel held him in his arms, and endeavoured to move
him as gently as possible. It was then seen that the deep gash from
the count's sword in the chest was not the most serious injury, but
that an arquebus ball had pierced his thigh, before burying itself in
the body of his horse; and that the limb had been further crushed and
wrenched by the animal's struggles.
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