"I live in death," replied that other one with a fearful grin.

"Whose are those bones on thy clothes?"

"They are relics, young sir."

"Art thou a pilgrim?"

"Restless, quietless, I wander up and down."

"Thou must not perish here in the snow before my eyes."

"That I will not."

"Thou must come up and sit on my horse."

"That I will." And all at once he started up out of the snow with
surprising strength and agility, and sat on the horse behind Sintram,
clasping him tight in his long arms. The horse, startled by the
rattling of the bones, and as if seized with madness, rushed away
through the most trackless passes. The boy soon found himself alone
with his strange companion; for Rolf, breathless with fear, spurred
on his horse in vain, and remained far behind them. From a snowy
precipice the horse slid, without falling, into a narrow gorge,
somewhat indeed exhausted, yet continuing to snort and foam as
before, and still unmastered by the boy. Yet his headlong course
being now changed into a rough irregular trot, Sintram was able to
breathe more freely, and to begin the following discourse with his
unknown companion.