"Fritz! Fritz!" he answered, in the same language, "is it you?"
"I am Fritz Minnevich; that is true. And you, I think, are my cousin Carl."
They laid the wounded man near the stream, where Pomp was examining Withers's hurt.
"O, Fritz!" said Carl, "how came you here?"
"They said the Yankees were coming to take our farm. So Hans and I enlisted to fight. I got in here because I was ordered. We do as we are ordered. It was we who whipped the woman. We whipped her well. I hope my good looks will not be spoiled; for that would grieve our mother."
Thus the soldier talked in his native tongue, while Carl, in sorrow and silence, washed the blood from his face. He remembered he was his father's brother's son; a good fellow, in his way; dull, but faithful; and he had not always treated him cruelly. Indeed, Carl thought not of his cruelty now at all, but only of the good times they had had together, in days when they were friends, and Frau Minnevich had not taught her boys to be as ill-natured as herself.
"What for do you do this, Carl?" said Fritz. "There is no cause that you should be kind to me. I did you some ill turns. You did right to run away. But our father swears you shall have your share of the property if you ever come back for it, and the Yankees do not take it."
"It is all lies they tell you about the Yankees!" said Carl. "O Pomp! this is my cousin—see what you can do for him."
Pomp had been reluctantly convinced that he could do nothing for Withers: his wound was mortal. And Withers had said to him, in cheerful, feeble tones, "I feel I'm about to the eend of my tether. So don't waste yer time on me."
So Pomp turned his attention to the Minnevich. But Penn and Stackridge remained with the dying patriot.