In mortal terror he clung to a cross, and as his senses failed, thought of "the word." It seemed as if some one had called the right one, and from pure Weakness and fatigue, he could not remember it.
The young soldier was not willing to encounter the jeers of his comrades, by letting the vagabond escape.

With a curt: "Stop, you rascal," he threw the shoe into the graveyard, gave his bridle to the next man in the line; and a few minutes after was kneeling by Ulrich's side.

He shook and jerked him, but in vain; then growing anxious, called to the others that the boy was probably dead.
"People never die so quickly!" cried the greyhaired leader of the band: "Give him a blow." The youth raised his arm, but did not strike the lad.

He had looked into Ulrich's face, and found something there that touched his heart.

"No, no," he shouted, "come up here, Peter; a handsome boy; but it's all over with him, I say." During this delay, the traveller whom the men were escorting, and his old servant, approached the cemetery at a rapid trot.