“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?”