“I can not name him,” murmured Nietzel, almost inaudibly.  “Sir Count, I will be obedient and diligent in your service.  I am a wretched sinner, and must expiate my crime.  I shall do penance, too, and will be nothing more than a tool in your hands.  Only have mercy upon me.  Let me at least see my wife and child, if I may not speak to them!  I only wish to see them, in order to gain courage and strength for my difficult and dangerous undertaking.”

The count reflected for a moment, his eyes fastened upon Gabriel Nietzel’s countenance, whose imploring, anxious expression seemed to touch him.

“I have in my house at Spandow,” he said, after a long pause, “a beautiful painting by Albrecht Duerer.  It was, unfortunately, a little injured in the transportation, and you shall restore it for me.  To-morrow morning repair to Spandow, and ask for me.  I shall be there, and will myself put the painting in your charge.  Perhaps you will see there another painting besides, which will please you, and which, perhaps, is not unknown to you.”

Gabriel Nietzel took the count’s proffered hand, and with joyful impatience pressed it to his lips.  “Sir Count, I will be your servant, your slave, your creature.  I will damn my soul for you and suffer the torture of perpetual flames if you will only give back to me my wife and child!”

“Master Court Painter,” said Schwarzenberg, parodying his words, “I shall make you a rich and distinguished man.  I shall send you to Italy, and you will enjoy the heavenly fires of the Italian sky, if you will only bring me the sketch ordered, and prove to me that you are in earnest as to its execution.”

Gabriel Nietzel laughed aloud in the joy of his heart.

“Your highness shall not have long to wait.  I will very soon have the sketch at your excellency’s disposal.”

“We shall see,” said the count, with a slight nod of his head.  “And now that we have understood one another, and you have somewhat recovered your reason, now for the last time I tell you, you are dismissed!”

Gabriel Nietzel bowed low, and strode through the apartment toward the door of entrance, reverentially going backward that he might not turn his back upon the high-born, all-powerful count.  He had almost reached the door, when it was opened and a valet appeared, who announced in a loud voice: 

“His honor Count John Adolphus von Schwarzenberg!”

“My son!” exclaimed the count.  “He has returned?  Where is he?  Where?”

“His honor has just gone to his apartments to divest himself of his traveling clothes, but with your highness’s permission he will be here in a few minutes.”

“Tell the count, that I expect him with impatience,” cried the father.  The valet hurried out, and Gabriel Nietzel was in the act of following him, when Schwarzenberg called him back.

“Do not go out that way now,” he said; “my son is coming, and it is not worth while for him to see you.  Go through yonder door.  It leads to a corridor, and there you will find a small staircase by which you can descend to the court.  Go!”