Thereupon the peasant proceeded with his narrative. After they had left the dead man, of course the first thing was to see to the cows. The pigs had eaten all the straw in their sty and the poultry had rushed like mad things upon the grain that was given them. Everything was in order, and he, the village-elder, would see to it that it was kept so. Besides, old Wackwitz was an honest, stupid sort of fellow; he was quite to be trusted. For the funeral, of course, everything had been arranged according to the dead man's desire. But the old sergeant was not buried without having the three salutes fired over his grave. And the lord of the manor, in his uniform, with two old warriors of 1870-71, headed the procession of mourners. Franz Vogt sat on the bench in his dark cell and wept hot tears for his father's death. The poor fellow had indeed grounds for lamenting his fate. Death had taken from him first his friend and then his father. Was he always to be lonely? During the frosty days of winter Vogt had hardly set eyes upon his regimental comrade Wolf. But now a few days of damp weather brought the severe frost prematurely to an end. There was a sudden change one night at the end of January, and next morning the smiling sun beamed down from a clear blue sky upon the surprised, drowsy earth. The military prisoners at once began their daily work again upon the big parade-ground. The snow had to be removed before it could melt and settle in pools upon the ground they had so carefully levelled. In the grey morning twilight, therefore, a little troop of prisoners, with old cloaks over their prison clothes, were set to work as usual, surrounded by the armed sentries. For Vogt and Wolf it was a meeting after a long separation. The peasant recounted the particulars of his father's death; not without a certain pride in the unusual circumstances under which the old man had met his end in self-appointed loneliness. "A true man to the last!" said Wolf. But he could not even press his friend's hand in sympathy. Then Vogt began to speak of the day of release. For him that would soon come. He knew that every word must cut his comrade to the heart, for poor Wolf had still to endure long years of martyrdom in prison; but he could not help it. He could not restrain himself from expressing the great joy that filled his breast. He counted the hours and the minutes as they passed, and could scarcely sleep at night. Vogt walked with uplifted head and bright eyes; he handled his spade with cheerful zeal, and pushed his heavily-loaded wheelbarrow energetically. Would he not be a free man in a few days? But Wolf compressed his lips together, and the brighter the sunshine the darker grew the cloud on his brow. His cheeks had fallen in more and more, and at the slightest exertion the sweat poured down his thin face. He looked ready to break down, and his eyes glowed with a feverish light.