“I do not believe your oaths, Gabriel Nietzel,” interposed the count.  “You are liberal with your oaths and promises, but come short in deeds, in performances.  Nobody will pay for a picture before he has seen it, or at least a sketch of the same.  Therefore take yourself off, devise a plan, sketch your outline, and bring it to me.  If it pleases me, and is practicable, if I see that you are zealous and well disposed, then will I gladly aid you in its execution and pay you in princely style.  That is my last word, Master Court Painter Gabriel Nietzel, and now go, and do not show your face here again until you can show me that sketch.  You have understood me, have you not, Master Gabriel Nietzel?  I bespeak a picture, and you are to furnish me with a sketch of it; then, as you are in want, I shall gladly pay you for it in advance.”

“Yes, I have understood your lordship,” said Gabriel Nietzel, heaving a deep sigh.  “I know a subject for the painting you have ordered, and will make a sketch of it.  You shall not have to wait long for it.”

“It is a fine subject,” said Schwarzenberg quietly.  “We might call it the murder of Julius Caesar.”

“No, it is the execution of the Emperor Conrad III—­the execution and murder of the last Hohen-Hohenstaufen,” sobbed the painter, while tears fell in clear streams from his eyes.

“I believe another paroxysm of insanity has seized you,” said the count contemptuously.  “How can any one weep merely because he will represent a tragic scene?  What is the last of the Hohenstaufens to you?  You depict his death, and if the painting is a success I shall reward you handsomely for it, give you a splendid income, and then you can go to Italy, the home of all artists, to spend the remainder of your life there in pleasure and freedom.”

“It shall be just as your excellency says,” sighed Gabriel.  “Only, your excellency, only be so gracious as to give me back my wife and child.”

“I said so, your paroxysm of madness is coming on afresh!” cried Schwarzenberg, shrugging his shoulders.  “Man, are you really beside yourself?—­have you lost your senses?  Do you demand your wife and child of me, of Count Adam von Schwarzenberg, the Stadtholder in the Mark?  Go away with your follies.  Be off, so that you can make your sketch, and when you come back, and it is good, you will perhaps find me inclined to answer all your silly questions for you!”

“Sir Count, oh, for God’s sake, let me at least see my Rebecca once more!”

“Rebecca! your wife’s name is Rebecca?  Why, that really sounds as if she were a Jewess.  And you say that she is your wife?  Ah, repeat that again, then name the priest who celebrated your nuptials and united a Christian to a Jewess!  By ——!  I shall bring this evildoer to a strict account, and he shall be degraded from his office as a criminal and blot upon the Church, for he has sinned against God, the Church, and his Sovereign!  Gabriel Nietzel, name the priest who married you to a Jewess!”