He took up his position, and looked coolly before him. The moon shone down from a clear sky. A single light cloud floated against the dark background, looking like a little white skiff.
Heppner watched the cloud. He tried to think how he came to be in this place, up on the hill in the wood, in the middle of the night, like this. He could not quite make it out. More than all there weighed on him a leaden feeling of weariness. He would have liked to throw himself down on the bare earth.
The seconds dragged on slowly.
Suddenly a night-bird screamed loudly from a neighbouring tree-top, and immediately afterwards sounded the first stroke of the hour.
The sergeant-major pulled himself up. With suddenly awakened senses he looked about him. Opposite him stood Heimert with his revolver, and he himself felt the butt-end of a weapon in his right hand.
But this was all madness. It was a crime. He wanted to cry out, "Stop!" This folly was impossible. If anything happened to him he was lost. There was money missing from the battery cash-box; at least he must put that right.
Then came the second stroke. Stop! Stop! Why was his tongue tied?
Heimert saw him draw himself up. He thought his adversary was going to fire, and he raised his revolver hastily. His forefinger pressed the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed through the air, and almost simultaneously the clock struck for the third time.
Heppner remained a moment standing. His revolver rattled to the ground, his left hand clutched at his breast. Then the tall upright figure lurched forward, and fell like a lifeless mass. A violent shudder ran through the limbs; the body contracted, stretched itself again, turned over on itself, and fell on its back.
Then all was still.