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.

The ecclesiastics had taken possession of the best places in the back of the wagon.  They were inseparable brothers, and formed as it were one person, for they behaved like two bodies with one soul.  In this double life, fat Magister Sutor represented the will, lean Stubenrauch reflection and execution.  If the former proposed to be down or sit, eat or drink, sleep or talk, the latter instantly carried the suggestion into execution, rarely neglecting to establish, by wise words, for what reason the act in question should be performed precisely at that time.

Farther towards the front, with his back resting against a chest, lay a fine-looking young Lansquenet.  He was undoubtedly a gay, active fellow, but now sat mute and melancholy, supporting with his right hand his wounded left arm, as if it were some brittle vessel.

Opposite to him rose a heap of loose straw, beneath which something stirred from time to time, and from which at short intervals a slight cough was heard.

As soon as the door in the back of the vehicle opened, and the cold snowy air entered the dark, damp space under the tilt, Magister Sutor’s lips parted in a long-drawn “Ugh!” to which his lean companion instantly added a torrent of reproachful words about the delay, the draught, the danger of taking cold.