He threatens; and the shepherd, sturdy and proud like all of his race in our northern land, threatens in return.

Suddenly Weigand's sword resounds upon his head,--the stroke should have fallen flat, but who can control a fiery horse or a drawn sword?
The bleeding shepherd, with a cloven skull, falls down the precipice; his frightened flock bleats on the mountain.

Only the little lamb runs in its terror to the orchard, pushes itself through the garden-rails, and lies at Verena's feet, as if asking for help, all red with its master's blood.

She took it up in her arms, and from that moment never suffered Weigand the Slender to appear again before her face.

She continued to cherish the little lamb, and seemed to take pleasure in nothing else in the world, and became pale and turned towards heaven, as the lilies are.