Vogt was bleeding from a wound in his brow, in return for which he had bitten his opponent in the hand. But now the heavy buckle of a belt caught him full in the face. Sparks flew before his eyes, he reeled from the force of the blow, and, like an infuriated animal, his only desire was to revenge himself, to hit out and to kill his enemy. A newly polished sword lay near him, where it had fallen from the table. He seized it and struck and thrust with it in blind fury.
The recruits shrieked as they saw this development, but no one had the courage to seize the arms of the furious man.
Then an inspiration came to one of them.
"The sergeant-major!" he yelled at the door.
The struggling mêlée dispersed in a twinkling, the "old gang" vanished from Room IX., and only a great cloud of dust betrayed what had taken place.
The sergeant-major of course did not appear. But it was just as well; blood poured down Vogt's face, and when Klitzing awakened from his torpor he was seized with a kind of convulsive attack. He threw himself down, weeping and shrieking before his brave comrade, embracing his knees, and no talking could soothe him.
The other recruits stood frightened and helpless around the two. The brewer sat down on his stool to get his breath, and wiped the perspiration off his face.
Listing, the quondam tramp, was the most sensible. On the roads there is occasionally a fight or an accident, therefore one must know how to render assistance. He ran to the water-tap, and returned with a bowl of fresh water. He washed the wounded man's face, and then put quite a respectable bandage round Vogt's head. It is true that the folds were a little thick, as two towels were applied, and they looked almost like a turban, but they stopped the bleeding and held together.
The tattoo sounded over the courtyard.
It was high time to get ready for bed. The corporal in charge came into the room and told them to be quick. Suddenly he noticed the wounded man.