"Hanckel," he had said, "take pity on me in my grave. Don't forsake my boy."
As I said, that is what occurred to me, and when the pastor beckoned to me to come throw the three handfuls of earth in the grave, I silently sent a vow along with them, "I will not forsake him, old fellow, Amen."
Everything comes to an end. The gravediggers had made a sort of mound of the mud, and laid the wreaths on top, since there were no women at the funeral. The neighbours took leave, and the only ones that remained were the pastor, Lothar and myself.
The boy stood like a block of stone, staring at the mound as if to dig it up again with his eyes, and the wind blew the collar of his riding coat about his ears.
The pastor tapped him gently on his shoulder and said:
"Baron, will you allow an old man one word more----"
But I beckoned to him to step aside.
"Just go home, little minister," I said, "and get your wife to give you a glass of good hot punch. I fancy it's a bit draughty in that silk vestment of yours."
"Hee, hee!" he said, and grinned slily. "It looks as if it were, but I wear my overcoat underneath."
"Never mind," I said. "Go home. I'll look out for the boy. I know better than you where the shoes pinches him."