They had reached the centre of the rampart, when she saw in the distance a tall figure stretched at full length.
That, yes, that was he!
Snatching the lantern from the lansquenet’s hand, she rushed to the prostrate form, threw herself on her knees beside it, and cast the light upon the face.
What had she seen?
Why did the shriek she uttered sound so agonized? The men were approaching, but Ruth knew that there was something else to be done, besides weeping and wailing.
She pressed her ear close to the mailed breast to listen, and when she heard no breath, hurriedly unfastened the clasps and buckles that confined the armor.
The cuirass fell rattling on the ground, and now—no, there was no deception, the wounded man’s chest rose under her ear, she heard the faint throbbing of his heart, the feeble flutter of a gasping breach.
Bursting into loud, convulsive weeping, she raised his head and pressed it to her bosom.
“He is dead; I thought so!” said the lansquenet, and Adam sank on his knees before his wounded son. But Ruth’s sobs now changed to low, joyous, musical laughter, which echoed in her voice as she exclaimed: “Ulrich breathes, he lives! Oh, God! oh, God! how we thank Thee!”
Then—was she deceived, could it be? She heard the inflexible man beside her sob, saw him bend over Ulrich, listen to the beating of his heart, and press his bearded lips first to his temples, then on the hand he had so harshly rejected.