The innkeeper held the reins, and, propped up in front of him, was Hillars, to all appearances dead.
"Gott!" cried the innkeeper, discovering me, "but I am glad to see you, Herr.

Your friend has been hurt, badly, badly." "My God!" I cried.

The hand and wrist of the innkeeper which encircled Hillars were drenched in blood.
"Yes.

A bullet somewhere in his chest.

Help me down with him.