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.[46]

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!