He was nearly unconscious, and
gasped with anguish, but, after Moritz had bathed his face and
moistened his lips, as he lay in his brother's arms, he looked up
with clearer eyes, and said: "Have I slain him? It was the shot,
not he, that sent me down. Lives he? See--thou, Friedel--thou.
Make him yield."
Transferring Ebbo to the arms of Schleiermacher, Friedel obeyed, and
stepped towards the fallen foe. The wrongs of Adlerstein were indeed
avenged, for the blood was welling fast from a deep thrust above the
collar-bone, and the failing, feeble hand was wandering uncertainly
among the clasps of the gorget.
"Let me aid," said Friedel, kneeling down, and in his pity for the
dying man omitting the summons to yield, he threw back the helmet,
and beheld a grizzled head and stern hard features, so embrowned by
weather and inflamed by intemperance, that even approaching death
failed to blanch them. A scowl of malignant hate was in the eyes,
and there was a thrill of angry wonder as they fell on the lad's
face. "Thou again,--thou whelp! I thought at least I had made an
end of thee," he muttered, unheard by Friedel, who, intent on the
thought that had recurred to him with greater vividness than ever,
was again filling Ebbo's helmet with water.
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