"Come to my heart, old boy," cried Mr. Schmenckel returning the embrace. "You are a trump--a perfect brick; let us be brothers."
He let go Berger and seized his glass.
At the same moment Berger fell, pressing his hand upon his heart, with a fearful cry, and fainted away.
It was a fearful cry indeed--like the cry for help of a drowning man at the instant of sinking--a cry that was heard high above the din in the room, that silenced all the chatting and chaffing, and made the drinkers jump up from their seats in utter consternation. They crowded around the fallen man, and glared with stupid, half-drunken eyes at him, as Oswald tried in vain to raise him from the floor. No one lent a hand to assist the young man. The fright seemed to have paralyzed the crowd.
"Will nobody help me?" cried Oswald, supporting the burden of the lifeless body in his arms.
These words were addressed to Mr. Schmenckel, who until now had been quietly standing near, with open mouth and fixed eyes, his pipe in one hand, the glass of beer in the other.
Oswald's appeal brought him back to his senses.
"You are right, count," he said, "we must do something for the old gentleman."
He put his pipe on the table, took Berger, who was still unconscious, from Oswald's arms, lifted him without effort on his shoulder, and carried him out of the room as a lion bears off a dead gazelle.
Oswald and the landlord followed him.