Rahel shrieked loudly:  “To the cellar, Ruth.  Oh, God, oh, God, have mercy upon us!  Quick—­where’s my shawl?—­They are attacking us!—­Come, come!  Oh, I am caught, I can go no farther!”

Mortal terror had seized the old woman; she did not want to die.  To the girl death was welcome, and she did not stir.

Voices were now audible in the vestibule, but they sounded neither noisy nor threatening; yet Rahel shrieked in despair as a lansquenet, fully armed, entered the workshop with the armorer.

Hans Eitelfritz had come to look for Ulrich’s father.  In his arms lay the dog Lelaps, which, bleeding from the wound made by a bullet, that grazed its neck, nestled trembling against its master.

Bowing courteously to Ruth, the soldier said: 

“Take pity on this poor creature, fair maiden, and wash its wound with a little wine.  It deserves it.  I could tell you such tales of its cleverness!  It came from distant India, where a pirate. . . .  But you shall hear the story some other time.  Thanks, thanks!  As to your son, Meister, it’s a thousand pities about him.  He was a splendid fellow, and we were like two brothers.  He himself gave me the safeguard for you and the artist, Moor.  I fastened them on the doors with my own hands, as soon as the fray began.  My swordbearer got the paste, and now may the writing stick there as an honorable memento till the end of the world.  Navarrete was a faithful fellow, who never forgot his friends!  How much good that does Lelaps!  See, see!  He is licking your hands, that means, ’I thank you.’”

While Ruth had been washing the dog’s wound, and the lansquenet talked of Ulrich, her tearful eyes met the father’s.

“They say he cut down twenty-one Walloons before he fell,” continued Hans.

“No, sir,” interrupted Adam.  “I saw him.  He was shot before he raised his guilty sword.”

“Ah, ah!—­but it happened on the rampart.”

“They rushed over him to the assault.”

“And there he still lies; not a soul has cared for the dead and wounded.”

The girl started, and laid the dog in the old man’s lap, exclaiming:  “Suppose Ulrich should be alive!  Perhaps he was not mortally wounded, perhaps. . . .”

“Yes, everything is possible,” interrupted the lansquenet.  “I could tell you things . . . for instance, there was a countryman of mine whom, when we were in Africa, a Moorish Pacha struck . . . no lies now . . . perhaps!  In earnest; it might happen that Ulrich . . . wait . . . at midnight I shall keep guard on the rampart with my company, then I’ll look. . . .”

“We, we will seek him!” cried Ruth, seizing the smith’s arm.

“I will,” replied the smith; “you must stay here.”

“No, father, I will go with you.”

The lansquenet also shook his head, saying “Jungfer, Jungfer, you don’t know what a day this is.  Thank Our Heavenly Father that you have hitherto escaped so well.  The fierce lion has tasted blood.  You are a pretty child, and if they should see you to-day. . . .”