When the attendants saw their master on foot, they too sprang from their saddles, Lips did the same, and an eager interchange of question and answer began among them.

The nobleman scarcely noticed his son, but greeted with angry words the man who had shot the Jew.  Then, deeply excited, he hoarsely ordered his attendants to bind the smith, who made no resistance, but submitted to everything like a patient child.

Lopez no longer needed his arms.

The dumb wife sat on the stump, with her dying husband resting on her lap.  She had thrown her arms around the bleeding form, and the feet hung limply down, touching the snow.

Ruth, sobbing bitterly, crouched on the ground by her mother’s side, and old Rahel, who had entirely regained her self-control, pressed a cloth, wet with wine, on his forehead.

The young count approached the dying Jew.  His father slowly followed, drew the boy to his side, and said in a low, sad tone: 

“I am sorry for the man; he saved my life.”

The wounded man opened his eyes, saw Count Frohlinger, his son and the fettered smith, felt his wife’s tears on his brow, and heard Ruth’s agonized weeping.  A gentle smile hovered around his pale lips, and when he tried to raise his head Elizabeth helped him, pressing it gently to her breast.

The feeble lips moved and Lopez raised his eyes to her face, as if to thank her, saying in a low voice:  “The arrow—­don’t touch it....  Elizabeth—­Ruth, we have clung together faithfully, but now—­I shall leave you alone, I must leave you.”  He paused, a shadow clouded his eyes, and the lids slowly fell.  But he soon raised them again, and fixing his glance steadily on the count, said: 

“Hear me, my Lord; a dying man should be heard, even if he is a Jew.  See!  This is my wife, and this my child.  They are Christians.  They will soon be alone in the world, deserted, orphaned.  The smith is their only friend.  Set him free; they—­they, they will need a protector.  My wife is dumb, dumb....alone in the world.  She can neither beseech nor demand.  Set Adam free, for the sake of your Saviour, your son, free—­yes, free.  A wide, wide space must be between you; he must go away with them, far away.  Set him free!  I held his arm with the hammer....  You know—­with the hammer.  Set him free.  My death—­death atones for everything.”

Again his voice failed, and the count, deeply moved, looked irresolutely now at him, now at the smith.  Lips’s eyes filled with tears; and as he saw his father delay in fulfilling the dying man’s last wish, and a glance from the dim eyes met his, he pressed closer to the noble, who stood struggling with many contending emotions, and whispered, weeping: 

“My Lord and Father, my Lord and Father, tomorrow will be Christmas.  For Christ’s sake, for love of me, grant his request:  release Ulrich’s father, set him free!  Do so, my noble Father; I want no other Christmas gift.”