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.”

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.  The former, a gentleman of middle age, protected from the cold by costly furs, saw with a single hasty glance the cause of the detention.

Instantly dismounting, he followed the leader of the troop to the end of the wall, where there was a flight of rude steps.

Ulrich’s head now lay in the soldier’s arms, and the traveller gazed at him with a look of deep sympathy.  The steadfast glance of his bright eyes rested on the boy’s features as if spellbound, then he raised his hand, beckoned to the elder soldier, and exclaimed:  “Lift him; we’ll take him with us; a corner can be found in the wagon.”

The vehicle, of which the traveller spoke, was slow in coming.  It was a long four-wheeled equipage, over which, as a protection against wind and storm, arched a round, sail-cloth cover.  The driver crouched among the straw in a basket behind the horses, like a brooding hen.

Under the sheltering canopy, among the luggage of the fur-clad gentleman, sat and reclined four travellers, whom the owner of the vehicle had gradually picked up, and who formed a motley company.

The two Dominican friars, Magisters Sutor and Stubenrauch, had entered at Cologne, for the wagon came straight from Holland, and belonged to the artist Antonio Moor of Utrecht, who was going to King Philip’s court.  The beautiful fur border on the black cap and velvet cloak showed that he had no occasion to practise economy; he preferred the back of a good horse to a seat in a jolting vehicle.