If it should be the troopers!

Ulrich’s heart stood still, and turning to look back, he saw several horsemen, who were trotting past a spur of the hill around which the road wound.

Through the falling flakes the boy perceived glittering weapons, gay doublets and scarfs, and now—­now—­all hope was over, they wore Count Frohlinger’s colors!

Unless the earth should open before him, there was no escape.  The road belonged to the horsemen; on the right lay a wide, snow-covered plain, on the left rose a cliff, kept from falling on the side towards the highway by a rude wall.  It needed this support less on account of the road, than for the sake of a graveyard, for which the citizens of the neighboring borough used the gentle slope of the mountain.

The graves, the bare elder-bushes and bushy cypresses in the cemetery were covered with snow, and the brighter the white covering that rested on every surrounding object, the stronger was the relief in which the black crosses stood forth against it.

A small chapel in the rear of the graveyard caught Ulrich’s eye.  If it was possible to climb the wall, he might hide behind it.  The horsemen were already close at his heels, when he summoned all his remaining strength, rushed to a stone projecting from the wall, and began to clamber up.

The day before it would have been a small matter for him to reach the cemetery; but now the exhausted boy only dragged himself upward, to slip on the smooth stones and lose the hold, that the dry, snow-covered plants growing in the wide crevices treacherously offered him.

The horsemen had noticed him, and a young man-at-arms exclaimed:  “A runaway!  See how the young vagabond acts.  I’ll seize him.”

He set spurs to his horse as he spoke, and just as the boy succeeded in reaching his goal, grasped his foot; but Ulrich clung fast to a gravestone, so the shoe was left in the trooper’s hand and his comrades burst into a loud laugh.  It sounded merry, but it echoed in the ears of the tortured lad like a shriek from hell, and urged him onward.  He leaped over two, five, ten graves—­then he stumbled over a head-stone concealed by the snow.

With a great effort he rose again, but ere he reached the chapel fell once more, and now his will was paralyzed.  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.”