And with loud voice, occasionally interrupted by the convulsive groans which escaped his breast, he read:  “I am grieved to announce to you, beloved and honored father, that our affairs have not prospered, as we hoped and expected.  Through the intercession of good Father Silvio, I had a long interview yesterday with the Emperor.  And the result of it is this:  The Emperor loves you, it is true; he calls you his most faithful servant, and promises ever to be a gracious Sovereign to you, but he will never further your projects of becoming an independent ruler, and will not assist you to effect the Elector’s ruin, that you may usurp his place.  He rather wishes you to remain what you are—­Stadtholder in the Mark—­and to exert all your energies in maintaining that position, since the Emperor relies upon your good offices for securing him an ally in the Elector.  The Mark is to remain Frederick William’s domain, but the Elector must become an Imperialist.  Such is the will and pleasure of the Emperor.  He urged me to beg you to evince more complaisance and deference for the Elector, that you may acquire influence over him.  The Emperor had been much shocked by the news sent him from Koenigsberg by Martinitz.  It appears certain from this information, my dear father, that the Elector is much set against you, and that he only makes use of your continuance in office as a mask, behind which he may, unseen, direct his missiles against you.  The Elector has taken your refusal to come to Koenigsberg upon his invitation in very ill part, and it has excited his highest displeasure.  We have played a dangerous game, and I fear we have lost it.”

“Lost!” screamed the count, crushing the paper in his hand into a ball and dashing it to the ground.  “Yes, I have lost and am ruined!  The end and aim of my whole life are defeated!  I aimed at the summit, and when I have nearly reached my goal an invisible hand hurls me back, and I am plunged into an abyss!”

“As serves you right, for God is just!” said a solemn voice behind him, and a hand was laid heavily upon his shoulder.

Count Schwarzenberg uttered a shriek of horror and turned round.  A soldier stood behind him—­an Imperial soldier in dirty, tattered garments, a poor, miserable man.  And yet the count sprang from his chair, as if in the presence of some prince or superior being before whom he must bow with reverence.  With bowed head he stood before this soldier, and dared not look him in the face!

Yes, it was a prince, it was a superior being before whom he bowed!  He stood before his judge, he stood before his conscience!  He knew it, he felt it!  A cold hand was laid upon his heart and contracted it convulsively; it was laid upon his head and bowed it low.  Death was there, and his name was Gabriel Nietzel!

“Gabriel Nietzel!” murmured his ashy pale lips, “Gabriel Nietzel!”

“You recognize me, then?” said the soldier quietly and coldly.  “Look at me, count, lift your eyes upon me!  I want to see your countenance!”