"And our deliverer? I hope he has not been injured?"
"Ah yes, true!" said the Director, somewhat ashamed. "We had nearly forgotten that. It was Hartmann who stopped the horses. Hartmann, where are you?"
There was no answer to his call, but Wilberg, who, in his admiration for the romantic deed, quite forgot his old grudge against the doer, cried eagerly:
"He is standing out there yonder!" and rushed across to the young miner.
When the gentlemen had hastened up, Ulric had at once retreated, and he was now standing with his back turned to them, and leaning against a tree.
"Hartmann, you must come.... Good heavens! what is the matter with you? Where does all this blood come from?"
Ulric was visibly struggling against an attack of faintness, yet his face flushed angrily as the other made an attempt to support him. Indignant that he should be thought capable of such weakness, he raised himself hastily, and pressed his clenched hand still more firmly to his bleeding forehead.
"It is nothing--nothing but a scratch. If I had only a handkerchief!"
Wilberg was about to produce his, when suddenly a silk dress rustled close by him. Young Lady Berkow stood by his side, and, without speaking, held out her own little one, trimmed with costly lace.
The Baroness Windeg could never have been called upon to offer practical help to a wounded man, or she would have said to herself that this tiny embroidered morsel of cambric was ill-qualified to stanch such a stream of blood as now poured forth, the thick masses of light hair having, for a time, impeded the flow. Ulric must have known better how useless it was, yet he stretched out his hand for the proffered help.