Sumptuous was the feast, choice were the viands, and costly the fragrant wines. The guests of the Stadtholder in the Mark were full of rapture, full of admiration, and their lips were lavish in praises of the noble count, while their eyes shone brighter from partaking of the generous wine. The lackeys flew up and down the hall, waiting upon the guests, the pages stood behind the count’s chair, and offered his excellency food and drink in vessels of gold. At first they sat at table with grave and dignified demeanor, but gradually the delicious viands enlivened their hearts, the glowing wine loosened their tongues, and now they laughed and talked merrily and gave themselves entirely up to the pleasures of the table. Louder swelled the hum of mingled voices. Peals of laughter rang through the banquet hall, until in their turn they were drowned by bursts of dashing music, whose inspiring strains blended with the animated tones of the human voice. Count Adam Schwarzenberg, who sat at the upper end of the table under a canopy of purple velvet, heard all this, and yet it seemed to him like a dream, and as if all this bustle, laughing, and merrymaking came to him from the distant past. He heard the confusion of voices, the clangor of the music, but it sounded hollow in his ear, and above all rang fearfully distinct the name which Lehndorf had pronounced Gabriel Nietzel! His guests sang and laughed, but he heard only that one name Gabriel Nietzel!

Round about the long table he saw only glad faces, beaming eyes, and flushed cheeks, but he saw them vanish and other faces arise before his inner eye, faces of the past! There sat the Elector George William, with his easy, good-natured countenance. He nodded smilingly at him, and his glance, full of affection, rested upon him, the favorite. Yes, he had loved him dearly, that good Elector! Out of the little, insignificant Count Schwarzenberg he had made a mighty lord, had exalted him into a Stadtholder, into the most powerful subject in his realm! And how had he requited him?

“Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel!” He heard the maddening words ringing clearly and distinctly above the din of music, song, and laughter “Gabriel Nietzel!”

There he stood in page’s dress, across there, behind the chair of the young Electoral Prince, whose pale, noble features had just begun to quiver convulsively there he stood and cast a look of intelligence at him, Count Schwarzenberg.

“Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel!”

Ever thus rang the echo through the hall, and however varied the medley of sounds, to him all was embodied in that name. For long months he had caused search to be made for him, but nobody had been able to bring him any tidings of Gabriel Nietzel’s whereabouts. So, gradually, he had forgotten him, and his anxiety about him had died away. Why must this dreaded name make itself heard again to-day, just to-day, when he was inaugurating the bright days of his future with this splendid feast? Why must that hateful name mingle with the rejoicings of his merry guests?

He would think of it no more, no more allow himself to be haunted by phantoms of the past! Away with memories, away with that unhappy name! Vehemently, indignantly he shook his lofty head, as if these memories were only troublesome insects to be driven away by the mere wrinkling of his brow. He even called a smile to his lips, and with a proud effort at self-control arose from his armchair and lifted the golden beaker on high, in his right hand.

If he spoke himself, he would no longer hear that perpetual ringing and singing within his breast “Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel!”

He lifted the golden beaker yet higher and bowed right and left to his guests, who had risen to their feet and looked at him full of expectancy.

“To the health of the Emperor Ferdinand, our most gracious Sovereign and lord!”

The musicians struck their most triumphant melody; with loud huzzas and shouts the guests repeated, “To the health of our most gracious lord and Emperor!”

“Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel!” Still it rang in Schwarzenberg’s ears, and he sank back in his armchair and felt a sense of helpless despondency creep over his heart.

The guests followed his example and resumed their seats. A momentary silence ensued. All at once Chamberlain von Lehndorf rose from his place, took his glass with him, and went along the table to the Counselor of the Exchequer von Lastrow, who was carrying on an earnest conversation in an undertone with the burgomaster of Berlin. The chamberlain’s face was flushed with wine, his eyes sparkled, and his gait was so wavering and unsteady that even the goblet in his hand swung to and fro.

“Counselor von Lastrow,” he said, with loud, peremptory voice, “you refused to drink the health proposed by his excellency the Stadtholder in the Mark. The toast was to his Majesty our lord and Emperor. You did not lift up your glass, nor touch that of your neighbor. Wherefore was this? Why did you not drink to the welfare of our lord and Emperor?”

“I will tell you why, Chamberlain von Lehndorf,” replied Herr von Lastrow, leaping up and confronting the chamberlain in his gay uniform, with dagger dangling at his side “I will tell you why I did not accept the Stadtholder’s toast, and may all his guests hear and ponder. I thank you, Sir Chamberlain, for affording me an opportunity of expressing myself openly and candidly on this subject. Permit me, gentlemen, to answer in the hearing of you all the question which the chamberlain has addressed to me.”

As the counselor thus spoke his large black eyes surveyed both sides of the long table. All present were silenced, all eyes were directed to the lower end of the table, and each one listened with strained attention to hear the answer of Herr von Lastrow.

Count Schwarzenberg had risen from his chair and given the rash chamberlain a look of displeasure. Yet he felt so embarrassed by his own anxiety that he dared not call him.

“Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel!” rang ever in his ears, frightening away all other sounds, until they seemed to reach him only as dim and hollow echoes from afar.

“Gentlemen!” cried Herr von Lastrow now, in a loud voice, “I did not drink the Stadtholder’s toast because it would have been contrary to my duty and my oath. Ferdinand is Emperor of the German Empire, and as such we owe him reverence and respect, but when the toast styles him our lord and Emperor I can not respond to it, for Ferdinand is not my lord! No, the Elector Frederick William is my master, and now I lift my glass and cry, ’Long live Frederick William, our lord and Elector!’”

“Long live Frederick, our lord and Elector!” shouted voices here and there at the table, and all followers of the Elector sprang from their seats, held aloft their glasses, and shouted again and again, “Long live Frederick William, our lord and Elector!”

“Strike up, musicians!” called Herr von Lastrow to the balcony, where the musicians sat, who lifted their trombones and trumpets and put them to their lips. But before a note was struck, Lehndorf shouted fiercely up to them: “Silence! Dare not to blow a single blast! I forbid you in the name of our master, the Emperor!”

A wild yell of indignation from the Electoralists and a loud burst of applause from the Imperialists followed these words. Nobody remembered any longer that he was there as the guest of Schwarzenberg, the proud count and Stadtholder. All prudence, all sense of respect was swallowed up in the storms of political passion. With threatening aspect and flashing eyes stood the Electoralists and Imperialists opposite each other, and, while the former lifted up their glasses, to touch them in honor of their Sovereign and Elector, the latter knocked their glasses tumultuously on the table, and broke out into loud laughter and deafening imprecations. No one any longer paid honor to the master of the house no one thought of him, in fact. He had risen from his seat with the intention of going to the other end of the table, where now a furious duel of words was progressing between his chamberlain and Herr von Lastrow. He desired to pacify them, to smooth over the contention; but it was already too late, for ere he had reached the middle of the hall, a catastrophe had occurred between the contending parties. Counselor von Lastrow raised his arm, and administered to Chamberlain Lehndorf a sounding box upon the cheek.

One unanimous shriek of rage from the Imperialists, and they rushed toward Lehndorf and drew their swords. Behind Lastrow the Electoralists ranged themselves, and they, too, laid bare their weapons.

Count Schwarzenberg tottered back. He perceived that it was too late to pacify now, that all temporizing had become impossible. He had a feeling that he must flee away, that it did not comport with his dignity to stand there powerless and inactive between two factions. In this moment of weakness and indecision his confidential valet approached him.

“Most gracious sir,” he whispered, “a courier from Regensburg, from Count John Adolphus, has just arrived. I have already laid the letter upon your excellency’s writing table. It is marked ‘urgent.’”

Count Schwarzenberg turned to hurry from the hall, to escape the wild tumult, to take refuge in his cabinet, and, above all things, to read the long-expected letter from his son.

The uproar in the hall waxed ever fiercer, weapons clashed and wild battle cries resounded. He quickened his pace, and opened the door of the hall. Behind him rang out a piercing shriek, a death cry! Quivering in every fiber of his being the count turned round to Once more that piercing shriek was heard, and Herr von Lastrow, with Lehndorf’s dagger in his breast, fell backward into the arms of his friends with the death rattle in his throat.

Count Schwarzenberg, seized with horror, rushed on through the deserted, brilliantly lighted apartments on, ever on. But that fearful shriek went with him, ringing ever in his ears. It drove him onward like a fury, and his hair stood on end and his heart beat to bursting.

He had heard it once before, that death cry!

In the stillness of night it had sounded that time in the castle of Berlin, when a pale woman had knelt at his feet and pleaded for her life! Often had he heard it since; it had awakened him from sleep, it had often startled him when engaged in merry conversation with his friends; at the festive board it had drowned the music as far as he was concerned, this death cry, this Fury of his conscience!

At last he reached his cabinet. He threw himself into a chair. God be thanked, he was alone here! He had quiet and solitude here!

He surveyed the room and an infinite feeling of relief and security came over him.

Alone!

“Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel!” was whispered in his heart, and he looked timidly around, as if he feared to see him in each corner. Then a shriek resounded in his ear that death cry!

It had penetrated into his quiet cabinet, she stood behind him, she screamed in his ear, “Gabriel Nietzel! Rebecca!”

Perfectly unmanned, the count leaned back in his easychair, the sweat standing in great drops upon his brow. He no longer even remembered that he had come there to read his son’s important letter! His soul was shattered in its inmost depths. Gabriel Nietzel was there again! A murder had been committed in his house at his table! Committed, too, by his own servant, his favorite, his friend! He durst not pardon him; he must punish the murderer according to the law. He must pronounce sentence of death on him, who had slain his fellow-man! He foresaw this in the future! He saw himself as judge, the viceregent of God and justice, opposite the pale criminal, his servant, his friend, upon whom he pronounced sentence!

He! Would his lips dare to utter a sentence of death? Dared the murderer condemn?

“Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel! Rebecca! Rebecca!” screamed the voice behind his chair. But hark! what noise is that? What means that confused jumble of groans and yells and shouts that howling as of fierce and sweeping winds, that roar as of the mighty deep? What is that so like the rolling of thunder? Are those wolflike howls the voices of men? Is that the tramp of human feet? Before his windows it surges and dashes, howls and roars!

With difficulty Schwarzenberg rises from his chair, and, creeping to the window, conceals himself behind the hangings and cautiously looks out upon the street. A dense throng of soldiers surges beneath his windows; the whole street, the whole square is packed with them. Angry faces, the voices of furious men, hundreds upon hundreds of uplifted fists and portentous growls!

“He shall pay us our money! He wants to cheat us out of our pay! He wants to put us upon summer allowance and pocket the rest of the money! It is said this is done by the Elector’s command. But it is a lie, an abominable lie! Schwarzenberg lets nobody command him. He is master here. He wants us to starve that his own riches may be increased. We will not suffer it! He shall pay us for it! Hurrah! Storm the house!”

“A mutiny!” muttered Count Schwarzenberg. “They were to have rebelled, and so they do. But they rebel against me! I flung down the sword, and its point is turned against myself. So the spirits of hell grant what they have promised us what we have purchased at the price of our souls! They give the reward, but even while they are paying it out to us it becomes a curse and ruins us!”

How they storm and rage and roar without! How they beat and hammer against the locked doors! Count Schwarzenberg stands behind the window and hears them! He hears other voices, too Goldacker, Kracht, and Rochow endeavoring to calm them, exhorting them to be patient.

Futile efforts! Ever louder grow the knocking and thundering against the house. Stones are hurled against the walls, the window shutters rattle and are shivered to pieces, the doors creak and give way.

“If they attempt to murder me, I shall not stand on the defensive,” murmurs Count Schwarzenberg to himself, as he retires from the window, slowly traverses the apartment, and again sinks down upon the chair by his writing table. The door of the cabinet is violently torn open, and in rush the Commandants von Kracht and von Rochow, followed by the captains of their regiments.

“Gracious sir, it is impossible to calm these madmen. They no longer heed orders. They are beside themselves with rage. They have already broken open the doors and forced their way into the entrance hall. They will plunder and despoil the whole palace! We can save nothing more, prevent nothing more! You are lost, so are we, and all Berlin!”

“Be it so!” says Schwarzenberg loftily. “Let the whole earth fall down and overwhelm me in its ruins. I shall but be buried beneath them!”

“Gracious sir, only hear! The howling and yelling come ever nearer, and are continually gaining in strength! Gracious sir, have pity upon us, upon yourself! Save us all!”

“Save? How can I save any one? Will those savage hordes obey me, when they refuse submission to you, their officers?”

“Gracious sir, they demand their pay! They demand money! Nothing will appease them but money, and assurances that they shall have their winter allowance. Give us money to quiet that raging host! Money money!”

“How much would you have? How much is needful to tame that fierce, wild horde?”

“Three hundred dollars!” calls out Herr von Kracht.

“No; four hundred dollars!” shouts Herr von Rochow.

“Five hundred dollars!” growls Herr von Goldacker. “No, give us six hundred dollars, which would do the thing thoroughly.”

“Well, be it six hundred dollars then,” says the count, with an expression of contemptuous scorn. “Stay here, gentlemen; I will return directly. I am only going to fetch the money.”

He left the cabinet and entered his sleeping apartment, where, at the side of the bed, stood the great iron chest to which he alone had the key. After a few minutes he rejoined the officers in his cabinet. He had six rolls of money in his hand, two of which he handed to each of the three gentlemen.

“Here, gentlemen,” he said, with bitter mockery, “here are the commandants who have authority to bring their troops to order. Go and show them to your men, and order them to follow these commandants to the cathedral square, and there distribute the money among them.”

The gentlemen wished to thank him, but with a wave of his hand he pointed them to the door, and they hurried out to their soldiers.

Schwarzenberg looked after them, and listened to the rumbling and roaring without in the entrance hall of his house. Suddenly it became gentler, and finally ceased altogether. Then, after a pause, rang forth a loud shout of joy, and again the street filled with soldiers, again was heard the loud tramp of feet, the uproar and confusion of many tongues. “The wretches have marched off,” murmured Count Schwarzenberg to himself. “Yes, yes, with money we buy love, with money hatred and

“Hurrah! Long live Count Schwarzenberg!” sounded below his windows. “Long live the Stadtholder in the Mark!”

“That shout costs me six hundred dollars,” said he, shrugging his shoulders. “To-morrow, most likely the mob will come again to threaten me, that I may again purchase a cheer from them. Well, for the present at least I have rest. Nobody shall disturb me. Nobody shall intrude upon me.”

He stepped to the doors leading into his sleeping room and antechamber, and bolted them both. He did not think of the secret door which led to the little corridor and thence to the private staircase, and did not bolt that. Why should he have done so? The steps were so little used, so few knew of them, so few, of the existence of the little side door which led to them. It was not necessary to lock that door, for no one would come to him in that way.

He was alone, God be praised, quite alone! And now again he remembered the important letter, which he had forgotten while the soldiers’ riot was in progress. There lay his son’s letter, on his writing table. He hastened thither and seated himself in the armchair, taking up the letter and examining its address. The sight of his son’s handwriting rejoiced his heart, as a greeting from afar.

He drew a deep sigh of relief. All anguish, all cares had left him as soon as he took his son’s letter in his hand. Even the warning voice in his heart had hushed, even the Fury no longer stood behind his chair; he no longer heard her death cry. All was silent in that spacious apartment behind him, on which he turned his back.

He took the letter, broke the seal, and slowly unfolded the paper. But now he put off reading its contents for one moment more. This sheet of paper contained the decision of his whole future, it would either exalt him into a reigning prince by bringing him the Emperor’s sanction, or lower him into an underling of the Elector, making him a nobody, if But no, it was impossible! The Emperor would not disavow him! It was folly to think of such a thing!

He fixed his eyes on the paper and began to read. But as he read, his breath came ever quicker, his cheeks became more pale, his brow more clouded. His hands began to tremble so violently that the paper which they held rattled and shook, and finally dropped on the table.

Motionless and gasping for breath the count sat there, staring at the letter. Then its contents flashed through him like a sudden shock, and, collecting his faculties, he once more snatched up the paper.

“It is impossible!” he cried aloud, “I read falsely! That can not be! My eyes surely deceived me! My ears shall lend their evidence! I will hear my sentence of condemnation!”

And with loud voice, occasionally interrupted by the convulsive groans which escaped his breast, he read: “I am grieved to announce to you, beloved and honored father, that our affairs have not prospered, as we hoped and expected. Through the intercession of good Father Silvio, I had a long interview yesterday with the Emperor. And the result of it is this: The Emperor loves you, it is true; he calls you his most faithful servant, and promises ever to be a gracious Sovereign to you, but he will never further your projects of becoming an independent ruler, and will not assist you to effect the Elector’s ruin, that you may usurp his place. He rather wishes you to remain what you are Stadtholder in the Mark and to exert all your energies in maintaining that position, since the Emperor relies upon your good offices for securing him an ally in the Elector. The Mark is to remain Frederick William’s domain, but the Elector must become an Imperialist. Such is the will and pleasure of the Emperor. He urged me to beg you to evince more complaisance and deference for the Elector, that you may acquire influence over him. The Emperor had been much shocked by the news sent him from Koenigsberg by Martinitz. It appears certain from this information, my dear father, that the Elector is much set against you, and that he only makes use of your continuance in office as a mask, behind which he may, unseen, direct his missiles against you. The Elector has taken your refusal to come to Koenigsberg upon his invitation in very ill part, and it has excited his highest displeasure. We have played a dangerous game, and I fear we have lost it.”

“Lost!” screamed the count, crushing the paper in his hand into a ball and dashing it to the ground. “Yes, I have lost and am ruined! The end and aim of my whole life are defeated! I aimed at the summit, and when I have nearly reached my goal an invisible hand hurls me back, and I am plunged into an abyss!”

“As serves you right, for God is just!” said a solemn voice behind him, and a hand was laid heavily upon his shoulder.

Count Schwarzenberg uttered a shriek of horror and turned round. A soldier stood behind him an Imperial soldier in dirty, tattered garments, a poor, miserable man. And yet the count sprang from his chair, as if in the presence of some prince or superior being before whom he must bow with reverence. With bowed head he stood before this soldier, and dared not look him in the face!

Yes, it was a prince, it was a superior being before whom he bowed! He stood before his judge, he stood before his conscience! He knew it, he felt it! A cold hand was laid upon his heart and contracted it convulsively; it was laid upon his head and bowed it low. Death was there, and his name was Gabriel Nietzel!

“Gabriel Nietzel!” murmured his ashy pale lips, “Gabriel Nietzel!”

“You recognize me, then?” said the soldier quietly and coldly. “Look at me, count, lift your eyes upon me! I want to see your countenance!”

With a last effort of strength Count Schwarzenberg resumed his self-control. He raised his head, affecting his usual proud and self-satisfied air. “Gabriel Nietzel!” he cried, “Whence come you? What would you have of me? How did you come in here?”

“How did I come in?” repeated he. “Through yon door!”

And he pointed at the door opening upon the secret staircase. “I came twice and begged to be allowed access to you, but was refused. This time I admitted myself. You once sent me down the secret stairway, and pointed out that mode of exit to me yourself, when your son was coming to visit you. What do I want? I want you to give me my wife, my Rebecca; and if you have murdered her, I want your life!”

“Would you murder me?” exclaimed the count in horror, while moving slowly backward. Keeping his eyes fixed upon Gabriel Nietzel, he sought to gain the door to his bedchamber. But Nietzel guessed his design and disdainfully shook his head. “Do not take that trouble,” he said. “I have abstracted both keys and put them in my pocket. You can not escape me.”

Count Schwarzenberg’s eyes darted a quick, involuntary glance across at the round table on which stood his bell. Nietzel intercepted this glance and understood that the count meant to call his people. He took up the bell and thrust it into his bosom.

“Give up your efforts to evade me,” he said. “God sends me to you. God will punish your crime by means of this hand, which you once bribed to commit a murderous deed. Count Schwarzenberg, you have acted the part of the devil toward me! You have robbed me of my soul! Give it back to me! I demand of you my soul!”

“He is insane,” said Count Schwarzenberg, softly to himself. But Nietzel caught his meaning.

“No,” he said sorrowfully “no, I am not insane. God has denied me that consolation. I know what has been, and what is. There was a time a glorious, blessed time when I forgot everything, when all pain was banished, and I was happy ah, so happy! They said, indeed, that I was mad; they called it sickness, forsooth, and locked me up, and tormented me. But I was so happy, for I saw my Rebecca always before me, she was ever at my side and Count, where have you left my Rebecca? Where is she? Give her to me! I will have her again, my own Rebecca! Give her back to me, directly, on the spot!”

He seized him with both his arms, his hands clutching his shoulders like claws. “Where is Rebecca my Rebecca?”

Gabriel Nietzel stared at the count with frenzied fury, with devouring grief. Schwarzenberg cast down his eyes, a shudder passed over his frame, and terror-stricken he turned his head. It seemed to him as if, while Gabriel pressed upon his shoulders in front, some one came stealthily up to him from behind. He heard a cry a death cry! The Fury was there again! He could not escape her now!

“Let me go, Gabriel Nietzel,” he said feebly. “Quit your hold, go away. I will give you treasures, honors, distinctions, if you only quit your hold and go away!”

“What will you give me, if I let you go?” screamed Gabriel Nietzel, tightening his grasp and shaking him violently. “What will you give me?”

“I will give you a fine house, I will give you thousands, I will give you rank and titles. Tell me what you want, and I will give it to you!”

“Give me Rebecca! I want her and her alone! Tell me where she is or I will kill you!”

“She is in my house at Spandow,” said the count hastily. “Come, we will go away. You shall have your Rebecca again. Come, let us go! Rebecca is longing for you! Come!”

“You are deceiving me!” laughed Gabriel Nietzel. “I see it in your eyes, you are deceiving me. You want me to open the doors, and then you will call your people. There is no truth in what you say. Rebecca is not at Spandow; I know that, for I have been there. I stood many hours before the windows of your palace and called upon her name. She would have heard if she had been there; she would have come to me she would have freed me from all my sufferings. For, you must know, my Rebecca loved me! Because she loved me, that she might expiate the crime which you had tempted me to commit, that she might lift the weight of sin from my head, she went back to Berlin and bade me go on with our child. I had solemnly sworn that to her, and I kept my oath. I went on, following the route we had agreed upon together. I waited for her at every resting place, and always waited in vain. I came to Venice, and went to the house of Rebecca’s father; but she was not there. I wanted to go in search of her, but they held me fast, they imprisoned me in a dark dungeon. And there I sat a whole century, and yet was patient, ever waiting for the moment when I might escape from them and go to look for my Rebecca. And at last the moment came. The jailer entered to bring me my food; we were quite alone, and they had taken off my chains, for I had been harmless and gentle for some months past. I seized him, choked him, so that he could not scream, took his keys, and fled. God helped me; he always pities the poor and unfortunate he knew that I wanted to search for Rebecca. I came to Germany; I enlisted as a soldier, for I durst not die of hunger, else I could not reach Berlin and find my Rebecca. But now I am here, and ask you in the name of God and in view of the judgment day, where is Rebecca?”

“I do not know,” murmured Count Schwarzenberg, whom Gabriel Nietzel still held closely pinioned in his grasp.

“You do not know?” shrieked Gabriel Nietzel. “I read it in your face, you have murdered her. Yes, yes, I see it, I feel it you have murdered her! Confess it, wretch! fall down upon your knees and confess that you have murdered Rebecca!”

Schwarzenberg would have denied it, but he could not; conscience paralyzed his tongue, so that it could not utter the falsehood. He wanted to make resistance against those dreadful hands which held him fast, but he had no more power. Everything swam before him, there was a roaring in his ears, his knees tottered and shook, and the perspiration stood in great drops upon his brow.

“Mercy,” he murmured, with quivering lips “mercy! I will make good again, I

“Can you give me Rebecca again?” asked Gabriel, who now suddenly passed from the extreme of wrath to a cold tranquillity. “Can you undo and make null your evil deeds? Can you take from me the guilt you brought upon me? No, you can not, and therefore you must die, for crime must be expiated! You murdered my Rebecca, and therefore I shall murder you. Adam Schwarzenberg, pray your last prayer, for I am here to kill you!”

“No, you will not!” cried Schwarzenberg. “No; you will be reasonable you will accept my offers! I promise you wealth and consideration, I

“Silence and pray, for you must die! Death is here, Adam Schwarzenberg, for Gabriel Nietzel is here!”

He saw it, he knew that Gabriel spoke the truth. He knew that this man, with the pale, distorted, grief-worn face, with those large eyes flaming with the fires of insanity, was to be his murderer. Death had come to summon him away death in the form of Gabriel Nietzel!

And so, he was to die! He, the mighty, the rich, the noble Count Schwarzenberg! He whose name all Germany revered, he before whom all bowed in humility, who had had control over millions! He was to die by the hand of a madman, to die alone, unwept! If his son were only with him, his dear, his only son, who loved him, who “Have you prayed?” asked Gabriel Nietzel, who had been waiting in silence.

“No,” said Schwarzenberg, startled out of his train of thought “no, I have not prayed! Why do you ask that?”

“Because you must die!” replied Gabriel Nietzel, grasping him more firmly with his left hand, and with his right drawing forth a dagger from his breast. The count profited by this moment, tore himself loose, jumped back, and rushed toward the open door of the secret passage. But Nietzel sprang past him, and already stood before the door, confronting him again! As he saw the dagger glitter in the air, he remembered, with the rapidity of thought, the instant when he had stood before Rebecca, with the drawn dagger in his hand.

She had cried “Mercy! mercy!” He wanted to cry so, too, but could not! Like a flash of lightning it darted across his eyes, like a crushing blow it fell upon his brain. He uttered a piercing shriek, tumbled backward, and fell upon the ground, with rattling in his throat and with dimmed eyes!

Gabriel Nietzel bent over him and looked long into that convulsed countenance, and into those eyes which were fixed upon him with a look of entreaty! Nietzel understood that look. “No,” he said roughly “no, I do not forgive you, I have no pity upon you. Be you cursed and condemned, and go to the grave in your sins! God has been gracious to me; he has not willed it that I should be stained with your blood. He has laid his own hand upon you and smitten you. You will perhaps have long to suffer yet. Suffer!”

He put up his dagger, strode through the apartment, stepped out upon the secret passage and closed the door behind him.

“And now,” he said, when he found himself outside “now I shall go and acknowledge my sins to the Elector. He will be compassionate, and allow me to mount the scaffold. I shall then have atoned for all, and will once more be united to my Rebecca!”

Was it possible that this wretched, sobbing, deathly pale something, lying there on the floor of the cabinet, was but a few hours since the proud, the mighty, the dreaded and courted Count Adam von Schwarzenberg, the Stadtholder in the Mark? Now he was a poor dying beggar, longing for a drink of water, and with no one near to hand him the refreshing draught; who longed for a tear, and had no one to weep for him; who longed for forgiveness, and God himself would not forgive him! Hours, eternities of anguish went by, and still he lay helpless and solitary upon the floor! He plainly heard how they came and knocked, and then moved softly away, because they supposed that he had shut himself up to work. He heard them, but he could not call, for his tongue was palsied! He could not move, for his limbs were paralyzed!

Hours, eternities of anguish went by. Then his old valet came through the secret door, creeping softly in, and found him, that pitiable creature, on the floor, and screamed for help. Then the doors were broken down, and the servants came and the physicians. They lifted him up and bore him to the divan. He breathed, he lived! Perhaps help might not yet be impossible!

Everything was tried, but all in vain. He still lived and breathed, but he was paralyzed in all his limbs, and soon the inner organs, too, refused to exercise their functions. They removed the invalid to Spandow because the mutinous regiments were perpetually threatening to renew their attack upon the count’s palace, and might disturb the repose of the dying man. There he lay in his castle, a living corpse for four days more, with open eyes, giving token that he heard and understood what was passing about him. Finally, at the end of four days, on the 4th of March, 1641, Count Adam von Schwarzenberg closed his eyes, and of the haughty, powerful, dreaded Stadtholder in the Mark, nothing was left but cold, stiff clay!