“Mercy,” he murmured, with quivering lips—­“mercy!  I will make good again, I—­”

“Can you give me Rebecca again?” asked Gabriel, who now suddenly passed from the extreme of wrath to a cold tranquillity.  “Can you undo and make null your evil deeds?  Can you take from me the guilt you brought upon me? No, you can not, and therefore you must die, for crime must be expiated!  You murdered my Rebecca, and therefore I shall murder you.  Adam Schwarzenberg, pray your last prayer, for I am here to kill you!”

“No, you will not!” cried Schwarzenberg.  “No; you will be reasonable—­you will accept my offers!  I promise you wealth and consideration, I—­”

“Silence and pray, for you must die!  Death is here, Adam Schwarzenberg, for Gabriel Nietzel is here!”

He saw it, he knew that Gabriel spoke the truth.  He knew that this man, with the pale, distorted, grief-worn face, with those large eyes flaming with the fires of insanity, was to be his murderer.  Death had come to summon him away—­death in the form of Gabriel Nietzel!

And so, he was to die!  He, the mighty, the rich, the noble Count Schwarzenberg! He whose name all Germany revered, he before whom all bowed in humility, who had had control over millions! He was to die by the hand of a madman, to die alone, unwept!  If his son were only with him, his dear, his only son, who loved him, who—­“Have you prayed?” asked Gabriel Nietzel, who had been waiting in silence.

“No,” said Schwarzenberg, startled out of his train of thought—­“no, I have not prayed!  Why do you ask that?”

“Because you must die!” replied Gabriel Nietzel, grasping him more firmly with his left hand, and with his right drawing forth a dagger from his breast.  The count profited by this moment, tore himself loose, jumped back, and rushed toward the open door of the secret passage.  But Nietzel sprang past him, and already stood before the door, confronting him again!  As he saw the dagger glitter in the air, he remembered, with the rapidity of thought, the instant when he had stood before Rebecca, with the drawn dagger in his hand.

She had cried “Mercy! mercy!” He wanted to cry so, too, but could not!  Like a flash of lightning it darted across his eyes, like a crushing blow it fell upon his brain.  He uttered a piercing shriek, tumbled backward, and fell upon the ground, with rattling in his throat and with dimmed eyes!

Gabriel Nietzel bent over him and looked long into that convulsed countenance, and into those eyes which were fixed upon him with a look of entreaty!  Nietzel understood that look.  “No,” he said roughly—­“no, I do not forgive you, I have no pity upon you.  Be you cursed and condemned, and go to the grave in your sins!  God has been gracious to me; he has not willed it that I should be stained with your blood.  He has laid his own hand upon you and smitten you.  You will perhaps have long to suffer yet.  Suffer!”