“He knows nobody, he does not open his eyes, but lies there stiff and stark like a dead man, and if he did not sometimes fetch a breath, you would believe that he were already dead.  This the little Princess herself told me, as I accidentally met her in the passage, when she returned from visiting her brother.  But the doctor says this sleep is the beneficial result of his treatment, and that when the Electoral Prince awakes he will be quite restored to health.  He has ordered that no one else be admitted to see the Prince, and Dietrich watches over him like a Cerberus.”

“And he does well in that, Mrs. Culwin.  I thank you for your information, and if anything new should happen I beg of you to come to me forthwith.  Tell me one thing more:  Do you believe that the specter will come again to-night?  Is it the custom of the White Lady to show herself oftener than once?”

“My husband maintains that if she appears, as at this time, all in white, she will come again three nights consecutively.  So it was when the Elector Sigismund died.  I saw her only once, and she wore black gloves, but the next evening my husband saw her on the other side of the castle dressed all in white, and on the third evening the Elector died.”

“It would be interesting if the White Lady should come again to-night.  I should like to know if it is the case, and—­Well, farewell, Mrs. Culwin, and if you learn anything new, share it with me.  Perhaps I shall come over to the castle myself to-night.”

He held out his hand to the old woman, and, as he pressed hers, he let a well-filled purse slip into it.  He cut off her expressions of gratitude by a short nod of the head, and waved her toward the door.  The castellan’s wife withdrew, and, absorbed in deep thought, Count Schwarzenberg remained alone in his cabinet.  With hands folded behind his back, he walked for a long while to and fro.  His pace was ever steady, ever composed; his countenance seemed quite cheerful, quite tranquil, and yet his soul was stirred by passion and a storm was raging in his breast.

“He is alive—­he is still alive,” he said to himself.  “One could almost believe that he has a star above which watches over him and preserves him.  It has been ever so from childhood; and at times when I think of him I experience an unwonted sensation—­I am afraid of him.  He is my deadly enemy, I know it.  If I did not thrust him aside, he would do so with me.  If I did not kill him, he would kill me.  It was a mere act of self-defense to put him out of the way.  If it miscarries, I am lost, for I shall not soon have courage for a second attempt.  I am a coward in this young man’s presence, I am afraid of him!  He is my fate, my evil fate!  And I can not avert it, can undertake nothing more.  I lack a tool.  Oh, what a blockhead I was to dismiss Nietzel!  His own sins were the scourge by which I lashed him into action.  He was as wax in my hands, and if he failed this time, he must have tried it again.  I would have driven him to it, and he would have been forced to obey.  If the Electoral Prince should now get well, Nietzel would be glad, for he is a soft-hearted fool, and had it not been for Rebecca’s sake, he could never have brought himself to commit the deed.  Even while he executed it his heart bled, and—­My God!” he suddenly exclaimed, “what a thought bursts upon me!  If this Nietzel—­”