“Well, Master Gabriel Nietzel, here you are,” said Count Schwarzenberg, greeting the painter, who had just entered, with a gracious nod. “And it must be granted that you are a very punctual man, for I agreed to meet you here at Spandow by twelve o’clock, and only hear, the clock is just now striking the hour.”

“Most gracious sir, that comes from my already having stood an hour before the gates of your palace, waiting for the blessed moment to arrive when I might enter. I have been gazing this whole hour up at the dialplate of the steeple clock, and it seemed to me as if an eternity of torture would elapse while the great hour hand slowly, oh, so slowly, made its circuit of sixty minutes.”

“You are a queer creature!” cried Count Schwarzenberg, shrugging his shoulders. “Romantic as a young girl, full of virtuous desires, and yet not at all loath to commit certain delicate little crimes, and to pass off copies for originals, and that not merely pictures on canvas, but pictures in flesh and blood as well. For what else is your Rebecca but the copy of a respectable, decent matron, whom you thought to smuggle in as an original, while in reality she is nothing but a copy.”

“In the eyes of the law and the Stadtholder perhaps, but not in the eyes of God and of him who loves her more than his life and his eternal salvation, for he is ready, in order to possess her, to renounce even his honor and his peace of conscience. Oh, your excellency, be pitiful now and let me see my Rebecca. You have given me your word, and you will not be so cruel as to break your promise.”

“I promised you nothing further than that I would intrust certain damaged pictures to you for repairing, and that I would show you a picture which might perhaps be familiar to you that was all. I shall perform my promise, and that immediately. But first, just tell me how you are progressing with the painting I ordered of you. Perhaps you have already with you some sketch of it? It would be peculiarly pleasant to me, for on the day after to-morrow I give a fête in my palace at Berlin, and it would be quite opportune if I could then lay the sketch before the dear Electoral Prince, who is to honor the fête with his presence. He is a connoisseur, and interests himself greatly in such things. Say, then, how comes on your sketch, and can it be completed by that time?”

“It can, noble sir! But it is not possible for me to speak about that now, for my thoughts are wandering and my heart beats as though ’twere like to burst. If I am to become a reasonable man once more, let me first of all

“See the picture which I promised to show you?” interposed the count. “Well, then, you shall see it, Master Gabriel Nietzel. Remember, though, that I only show it to you on condition that you examine it in silence. So soon as you shall venture to speak to it, it vanishes, and you see it never more. One has to prescribe strict regulations to you, for you are such an odd fellow, freely entertaining bad thoughts, but shrinking from bad deeds like an innocent child. But you shall prove to me by deeds that you are in earnest about making amends for your crime against me, the world, the laws, and the Church. Only when you have done the right thing shall you again obtain your beloved and your child, and may depart unhindered from this country. Mark that, Master Nietzel; and now come. Follow me to my picture gallery.”

He nodded smilingly to the painter, and led the way out of the cabinet and through a suite of magnificent apartments. At the end of these they entered a spacious, lofty hall, whose walls were hung with great paintings.

“This is my picture gallery,” said the count on entering; “now look and be silent!”

Gabriel Nietzel remained standing near the door, and leaned against one of its pillars. He could proceed no farther, his knees shook so, and all the blood in his body seemed to concentrate in head and heart. He shut his eyes, for it seemed to him that he must expire that very moment. But finally, by a mighty effort of will, he conquered this passionate emotion, slowly opened his eyes, and ventured to cast a weary, wandering glance through the hall. How wonderfully solemn this broad, handsome room seemed to him, and how devout and prayerful was his mind! A mild, clear light fell from the glass cupola above, which alone illuminated the hall, and displayed the pictures on the walls to the best advantage. In the middle of the room, beside the splendid porphyry vase standing there upon its gilded pedestal, leaned the tall, athletic form of Count Schwarzenberg, casting a long, dark shadow upon the shining surface of the inlaid floor. Gabriel Nietzel saw all this, and yet he felt as if he were dreaming, and that all would vanish so soon as he should venture to move or step forward. The count’s voice aroused him from his stupefaction.

“Now, Master Nietzel, come here, for from this point you can best survey the pictures, and judge of their merits.”

Nietzel advanced with long strides, breathless from expectation, blissful in hope. Now he stood at the count’s side, and lifted his eyes to the pictures. With one rapid glance he swept the whole wall. Paintings, beautiful, costly paintings, but what cared he for them? Glorious in the pomp of coloring, and perfect in their truth to nature, they looked down upon him out of their broad gilt frames, but he had no senses for them. His eyes fastened again and again upon that broad, massive gold frame which hung opposite him in the center of the wall. The painting which this frame inclosed could not be seen, for it was hidden from view by the green silk drapery hanging before it, and at the side of the frame was suspended a string. Gabriel Nietzel saw nothing of the paintings, he only saw the green curtain, only the string which kept it fast. His whole soul spoke in the glance which he directed to them.

Count Schwarzenberg intercepted this glance and smiled.

“You are certainly thinking of Raphael’s exquisite Madonna,” he said, “and because that is always seen from the midst of a green curtain, you suppose, probably, that behind this curtain must also be concealed a Madonna and Child. Well, we shall see some day. Stay in your place, stir not, speak not, and perhaps a miracle will take place, and you shall behold una Madonna col Bambino of flesh and blood. But silence, man, for you well know how it is with treasure diggers: as soon as you speak, the treasure vanishes. Now, then, look and stand still!”

He stepped across to the wall and grasped the string. The curtain flew back and there she stood, the Madonna with the Child in her arms, so beautiful, so instinct with life and warmth, as only nature has ever painted and art imitated from nature. There she stood with that richly tinted olive complexion, with those transparent, softly reddened cheeks, with those full crimson lips, with those large black eyes at once full of mildness and fire, and with that broad and noble brow full of depth of thought and yet full of repose. And in her arms that sweet child, that vigorous boy so full of life, loosely clad in his little white shirt, that left bare his plump arms and firm legs. Roses were on his cheeks, dimples in his chin, and in the great black eyes lay the deep, earnest look, full of innocence and wisdom, that is sometimes peculiar to children.

The painter had sunk upon his knees, stretching out both arms to the picture, and from his eyes the tears flowed in clear streams over his cheeks. But indignantly he shook them away, for they prevented him from seeing the Madonna, his Madonna. Prayers he murmured up to her, prayers of love and confidence, supplications for steadfastness in danger, for courageous perseverance during separation. But he ventured not to address them audibly to the beloved Madonna, for he knew that a mere word would have snatched her away from him.

And she, she knew it too, and therefore she also was silent. Only with her eyes she spoke to him, and the tears which flowed from her eyes gave eloquent reply to his. Thus they looked at one another, at once full of bliss and pain. The child, which until now had sat quiet upon its mother’s arm, silent and as if in deep thought, suddenly began to move. Its large eyes were fixed upon the man who lay there on his knees, and, whether it were the result of an involuntary movement or the instinct of love, it spread out its arms and smiled.

“My child, my darling child!” screamed Gabriel Nietzel, springing from his knees and rushing forward with outstretched arms. But the frame with its living picture hung too high his arms could not reach it, his lips could not touch that smiling, childish mouth to press upon it a father’s kiss of blessing and seal of love. “My child!” he cried again, and now, since love had once opened his lips, silence could no longer be maintained.

“Rebecca, my beloved,” he cried.

“Gabriel, my beloved,” sounded down.

“You have broken your word!” cried Count Schwarzenberg angrily, and he vehemently drew the string, so that the green curtain hastily rustled together. But it was in vain. A rounded, powerful female arm thrust it back, and now it was no more a Madonna with her Child who looked forth from the green curtain, but a glowing creature, a wife flaming with indignation and love, with defiance and grief.

“Nobody shall hinder me from looking at you, from speaking to you!” she cried. “I will see you, Gabriel. I will tell you, that I love you and am true to you. I will tell you that I would rather go barefoot through the world, begging with you and the child, than to live longer in this count’s grand castle, amid splendor, without you. Gabriel, rescue me from this place; do all that they require of you, only take me away from here.”

“Rebecca, I will rescue you, for I can not live without you without you the world is a desert to me. You are my sun and the light of my life.”

“Gabriel, release me, while yet there is time. They will make a Christian of me, and I shall renounce my faith and my salvation, in order to be with you again, but afterward I shall die of repentance.”

“Rebecca, I shall release you, and I too am ready to renounce my salvation in order to be with you. But I will not die of repentance, for I shall have you again, and when I look upon you and the child I shall feel no repentance.”

“Gabriel, release me, give back to me my happiness, my home, my family. For you are all that to me, and without you the world is a desert.”

“Without you the world is a wilderness, Rebecca. Swear to me that you love me!”

“I swear to you, by the God of my fathers, that I love you!”

“And would you love me if the whole world despised me?”

“What matters the world to me? Would I still love you? I would love you more fervently yet if all the world despised you, for then you would be like me. They despise me too, and turn away contemptuously from me, and yet I have done nothing bad.”

“Would you love me, Rebecca, even if I had committed a crime?”

“What do men call crime? Do they not say that you commit a crime in loving me? Would they not say, too, that the priest who blessed our union was a criminal? Be whatever you may, do what you will, I shall love you still. Your soul is my soul, and my heart is your heart. Release me, Gabriel, release me!”

“I will release you, Rebecca; in four days you shall be free, and we shall journey away from here, and return to Italy, never to leave it again.”

“To Italy!” rejoiced she “to my home! Oh, my Gabriel, I shall not merely love you, I shall worship you you will be to me the Saviour, the Messiah, in whom my people have hoped so long! I

“Now that is enough,” cried Count Schwarzenberg, who had been silent hitherto, because he felt well how much Rebecca’s words forwarded his own plans. “Now that is enough of refractoriness! Come, Gabriel Nietzel, and you, Rebecca, step back, or I shall have your child taken away, and you shall never see it again!”

“Go, Rebecca, go!” cried Gabriel Nietzel cheerfully. “You remain with me, even if you go, and I shall still see and speak to you when I am far from you. Four days only, and then we shall be reunited!”

“I am going, Gabriel! I shall spend all these four days praying for you to your and my God!”

“Sir Count!” cried Nietzel in cheerful tones “Sir Count, let us now return to your cabinet. I have something important to communicate to you.”

He cast not another look up at the curtain; he had no longer any sense of pain in her disappearance, but this was his one absorbing thought, that in four days he would again embrace his Rebecca, and that it lay in the power of his own hands to deserve her. With firm steps he followed the count, who now again led him out of the hall and into his cabinet.

“Well, speak, Master Gabriel!” cried the count; “what have you to say to me?”

Nietzel drew a paper from his breast pocket, and handed it to the count. “See, your excellency, here is the sketch of the painting I am to make for you.”

“Truly, a precious sketch,” said Schwarzenberg, examining the paper attentively. “That looks like a Holy Supper.”

“It is no Holy Supper, but a very unholy dinner.”

“In the middle of the table I see sitting a man and a youth. The man wears a crown upon his head and the youth wears a princely coronet.”

“It is the Elector and the Electoral Prince,” explained Gabriel Nietzel.

“Yes, indeed, the portraits are theirs. And beside them sits the Electress, and beside her I see myself, and quite gorgeously have you dressed me, with a princely ermined mantle about my shoulders and a prince’s diadem upon my brow. But what is that which I hold in my hand and offer to the Electress?”

“It is a lachrymatory, your excellency.”

“And yet the Electress smiles, Sir Painter.”

“She takes the lachrymatory for a golden vase, which your excellency is presenting to her as a present.”

“You are witty, it seems, Master Gabriel,” said the count sharply. “But that your portraits are good must be admitted, and your sketch is altogether charming. Only you have sketched for me there a joyous festival, and, if I remember rightly, I ordered of you a picture which should represent the death of Julius Cæsar, or some such murderous occasion. But I see no dagger and no murderer in this sketch.”

“Only look at that man standing behind the Electoral Prince.”

“Ah, I see him now. Why, master, that is your own likeness!”

“Yes, your excellency, my own likeness. You grant me your permission, then, to appear at the feast?”

“Why not? Paul Veronese, too, has introduced his own portrait among those of his banqueters. What is your image there handing to the Electoral Prince in that basket?”

“A piece of white bread, most gracious sir, nothing more.”

“Ah, a piece of white bread! You have become, it seems, the young Electoral Prince’s lackey, have laid your character as artist upon the shelf, and become body page to the gracious Prince?”

“It seems so, most gracious sir,” replied Nietzel with solemn voice. “But see here, the truth lies on this page.”

And he handed the count a second sheet of paper.

“What do I see? Something seems to have disturbed the banquet.”

“Yes, your excellency, very greatly disturbed it. Do you still see the man who stood behind the Electoral Prince?”

“No, I see him nowhere.”

“He has fled, your excellency. He is the murderer of the Electoral Prince, who is borne out senseless.”

“Of the Electoral Prince? Conrad the Third, you mean! For was it not the murder of the last of the Hohenstaufens which you promised me?”

“Yes, your excellency, and I will perform my promise if the sketch pleases you.”

“It pleases me very much, and it suits me perfectly,” replied the count, whose glance remained ever directed to the two sketches. “Yes, yes,” he continued slowly, “I understand, and the design has my approval, for it is simple and natural. You have your plan complete in your head?”

“Quite complete, your excellency.”

“Then it is not necessary to talk any more about it, or to preserve the sketches,” said the count, slowly tearing the two papers into little bits.

“You are right, count, it is not necessary to preserve the sketches, since I soon expect to carry them out on a large scale. But we have something else to talk about, your excellency.”

Schwarzenberg looked in amazement at the painter, whose voice had now lost its reverential expression, and was very firm and determined.

“We have only to speak upon such subjects as I may choose, master,” he said haughtily.

“No, Sir Count,” retorted Nietzel decidedly; “but we have to speak about what follows the completion of my painting. We must speak of that, even should it not please your excellency. On Sunday your banquet takes place; on that day I should like to set off for Italy with my wife and child, and leave Germany forever.”

“Do so, Master Nietzel, I strongly advise you to do so.”

“Will your excellency condescend to assist me thereto?”

“Joyfully, from the bottom of my heart, my dear Nietzel. You would travel to Italy. First of all you want funds for your journey, I suppose. Here, Master Nietzel, here I transmit to you a pocketbook containing twelve hundred dollars your pension, which I pay you in advance for two years.”

“I thank your excellency,” said Gabriel, taking the pocketbook. “The principal thing, though, is, how am I to get at my wife and child? Am I to come here to fetch them away?”

“Not so, Master Nietzel. I shall send Rebecca and the child to you at your lodgings in Berlin.”

“Before or after the banquet?”

“After the banquet, of course.”

“But if you do not do so, your excellency. If you should forget your promise to poor Gabriel Nietzel?”

“Ah! you mistrust me, do you, Mr. Gabriel Nietzel?”

“Do you not mistrust me, too, Sir Count? Have you not taken my Rebecca and my child as pledges for my keeping my word? Have you not deprived me of what is most precious to me in this world, not to be restored until I have fulfilled my oath to you? But what pledge have I that you will keep your word, and what means have I for forcing you to fulfill your oath to me?”

“You have my word as security the word of a nobleman, who has never yet forfeited his pledge,” said Count Schwarzenberg solemnly. “I swear to you that on the day of the banquet your Rebecca and your child shall be at your lodgings in Berlin, and that you will find them there on your return from the banquet. I swear this by the Holy Virgin Mary and by Jesus Christ the only-begotten Son, and in affirmation of my solemn oath I lay my right hand here upon this crucifix.”

The count strode across to his escritoire, and laid his hand upon the crucifix of alabaster and gold, which stood upon it. “I swear and vow,” he cried, “that next Sunday I shall send to Gabriel Nietzel’s lodging his Rebecca and her child, and that he shall find them there when he returns from the banquet. Are you content now, Master Gabriel Nietzel?”

“I am content, Sir Count. Farewell! And God grant that we may never meet again on earth!”

He greeted the count with a passing inclination of his head, and left the apartment without waiting for his dismissal.