It was at the floor both gazed in horror.
"May the good God have pity," said the soldier softly.
Before them lay three bodies, the first in the uniform of a French soldier, the second, the young Prussian officer Hans had seen flying, and the third——
Hans fell on his knees and took his daughter's golden head in his arms.
"Annchen!" he cried, "Annchen! Speak to me, my Annchen!"
But Frau Weyland was never again to laugh at his forgetfulness, never again to smile her "Ja, ja, dear father!" never to tease him about his battles.
The story was easy to read; the position of the bodies told it. The Prussian had fled to the Forest House for refuge, the Frenchman had fired from the doorway, Frau Weyland, hastily rising, had received one bullet.
As for the Frenchman, a sword thrust had finished him. Doubtless he had received it in the battle and he had bled while running. At all events, it was a loss of blood which had killed him.
Old Hans was almost crazy. With his daughter's head on his knees, he kept begging God to forgive him.
"She was all I had," he told the soldier, "and I thought she was with her husband's father. Herr Jesus, forgive me, forgive me."