Ebbo has overthrown the count, and
you must not be grieved if it be at some cost of blood."
"Alas, my son!" was all Christina could say, for his effort at gaiety
formed a ghastly contrast with the gray, livid hue that overspread
his fair young face, his bloody armour, and damp disordered hair, and
even his stiff unearthly smile.
"Nay, motherling," he added, as she came so near that he could put
his arm round her neck, "sorrow not, for Ebbo will need thee much.
And, mother," as his face lighted up, "there is joy coming to you.
Only I would that I could have brought him. Mother, he died not
under the Schlangenwald swords."
"Who? Not Ebbo?" cried the bewildered mother.
"Your own Eberhard, our father," said Friedel, raising her face to
him with his hand, and adding, as he met a startled look, "The cruel
count owned it with his last breath. He is a Turkish slave, and
surely heaven will give him back to comfort you, even though we may
not work his freedom! O mother, I had so longed for it, but God be
thanked that at least certainty was bought by my life.
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