Again the hammer whizzed high in the air, and again the Jew clung to the smith’s arm, this time exclaiming imperiously:
“Spare him, if you are my friend!”
What was his strength in comparison with Adam’s? Yet as the hammer rose for the third time, he again strove to prevent the terrible deed, seizing the infuriated man’s wrist, and gasping, as in the struggle he fell on his knees beside the count: “Think of Ulrich! This man’s son was the only one, the only one in the whole monastery, who stood by Ulrich, your child—in the monastery—he was—his friend—among so many. Spare him—Ulrich! For Ulrich’s sake, spare him!”
During this struggle the smith had held the count down with his left hand, and defended himself against Lopez with the right.
One jerk, and the hand upraised for murder was free again—but he did not use it. His friend’s last words had paralyzed him.
“Take it,” he said in a hollow tone, giving the hammer to the doctor.
The latter seized it, and rising joyously, laid his hand on the shoulder of the smith, who was still kneeling on the count’s breast, and said beseechingly: “Let that suffice. The man is only....”
He went no farther—a gurgling, piercing cry of pain escaped his lips, and pressing one hand to his breast, and the other to his brow, he sank on the snow beside the stump of a giant pine.
A squire dashed from the forest—the archer, to whom this noble quarry had fallen a victim, appeared in the clearing, holding aloft the cross-bow from which he had sent the bolt. His arrow was fixed in the doctor’s breast; alas, the man had only sent the shaft, to save his fallen master from the hammer in the Jew’s hand.
Count Frohlinger rose, struggling for breath; his hand sought his hunting-knife, but in the fall it had slipped from its sheath and was lying in the snow.