“Mercy, your excellency, mercy!” gasped Nietzel.  “I am writing even now!”

And with trembling hands he completed the receipt, and, on the count’s further command, subscribed his name.

Schwarzenberg read it over attentively.  “This is a document, my dear painter,” he said, smiling, “that may some day bring you to the gallows, for, only see, I have other confirmatory evidence.”

From a casket on his table he drew forth a roll of parchment, to which were attached two great seals, hanging by silken strings, and while he unrolled it he beckoned the painter to come near.  “See,” he said, “this is a testimonial which I have had made out for me at Venice by the Duke di Grimani, affirming that Titian’s Venus is his property, and that you spent three months in his palace painting a copy of the original.  You see well, dear court-painter Nietzel, that you are completely in my hands, and that I can have you strung up at any time, for the Stadtholder makes short work of cheats and perjurers, and sends them off to the gallows, where they belong!  Now say, master, will you to the gallows or will you live in honor and joy as the Electress’s court painter and my secret pensioner, my open foe?  I give you free choice.  Make your own unbiased decision.”

“I have no longer any choice,” groaned Gabriel Nietzel.  “Your excellency well knows that I have no choice.  I love life; I have not courage to die, therefore I am your slave.”

“Not at all; you are court painter to her highness the Electress, and shall retain your office if you behave yourself wisely and discreetly.  This very day you set out on your journey to Holland.”

A flash of joy gleamed in the painter’s eyes, and his brow cleared.  The count remarked it and laughed aloud.

“Oh, my dear!  I guess your thoughts,” he cried.  “You think that when you are in Holland I can no longer reach you, and you will take good care not to put yourself in my power again.  But know that my arm is far-reaching, and that I have spies and agents everywhere, who are very devoted to me because I pay them well.  They will find you out wherever you are, and no jurisdiction would refuse delivering up to me a criminal if I demanded him.  But besides that, Master Gabriel Nietzel, I hold here a sure pledge for your valuable person.”

“What sort of pledge does your excellency mean?” inquired Nietzel anxiously.

“Why, I mean the fair Rebecca, whom you brought with you from the Ghetto of Venice, and whom it pleases you here to give out to be your wife, married at Venice.  I hope, however, that you have not committed so heinous a sin as to take a Jewess to wife, for then you should not escape with the gallows, but should be burned at the stake with your cursed Jewess, your bold paramour.”

Master Nietzel answered not a word.  With a loud groan he sank upon a chair, and covered his face with both his hands, weeping aloud.