“Did you see the little cemetery on the hill, across the valley?  Put me there.  It is a wild, forgotten place.  ’Tis only my body.  Who cares what becomes of that?  As for the other, the soul, who can say?  I have never been a good man; still, I believe in God.  I am tired, tired and cold.  What fancies a man has in death!  A moment back I saw my father.  There was a wan, sweet-faced woman standing close beside him; perhaps my mother.  I never saw her before.  Ah, me! these chimeras we set our hearts upon, these worldly hopes!  Well, Jack, it’s curtain and no encore.  But I am not afraid to die.  I have wronged no man or woman; I have been my own enemy.  What shall I say, Jack?  Ah, yes!  God have mercy on my soul.  And this sudden coldness, this sudden ease from pain—­is death!”

There was a flutter of the eyelids, a sigh, and this poor flotsam, this drift-wood which had never known a harbor in all its years, this friend of mine, this inseparable comrade—­passed out.  He knew all about it now.

There were hot tears in my eyes as I stood up and gazed down at this mystery called death.  And while I did so, a hand, horny and hard, closed over mine.  The innkeeper, with blinking eyes, stood at my side.

“Ah, Herr,” he said, “who would not die like that?”

And we buried him on the hillside, just as the sun swept aside the rosy curtain of dawn.  The wind, laden with fresh morning perfumes, blew up joyously from the river.  From where I stood I could see the drab walls of the barracks.  The windows sparkled and flashed as the gray mists sailed heavenward and vanished.  The hill with its long grasses resembled a green sea.  The thick forests across the river, almost black at the water’s edge, turned a fainter and more delicate hue as they receded, till, far away, they looked like mottled glass.  Only yesterday he had laughed with me, talked and smoked with me, and now he was dead.  A rage pervaded me.  We are puny things, we, who strut the highways of the world, parading a so-called wisdom.  There is only one philosophy; it is to learn to die.

“Come,” said I to the innkeeper; and we went down the hill.

“When does the Herr leave?”

“At once.  There will be no questions?” I asked, pointing to the village.

“None.  Who knows?”

“Then, remember that Herr Hillars was taken suddenly ill and died, and that he desired to be buried here.  I dare say the Prince will find some excuse for his arm, knowing the King’s will in regard to dueling.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

I did not speak to him again, and he strode along at my heels with an air of preoccupation.  We reached the inn in silence.

“What do you know about her Serene Highness the Princess Hildegarde?” I asked abruptly.

“What does Herr wish to know?” shifting his eyes from my gaze.

“All you can tell me.”