“I thank your excellency—­I thank you with my whole heart,” said Gabriel Nietzel, breathing more freely; “and now you shall find me ready and willing to execute your commands faithfully and punctiliously.”

“It rejoices me, master, it rejoices me to see what a tender husband, or rather lover, you are.  I repeat to you, you need feel no anxiety about your Rebecca.  She will find herself quite secure in my society, while I fear that the Electoral Prince will have but little safety in your society, but be very often in danger.”

“I fear so, too, your excellency,” said Gabriel Nietzel, with a feeble effort to smile.

“But a good old proverb has it, ’All they that take the sword shall perish by the sword,’” continued the count.  “It is not your fault, master, if the Electoral Prince does not know this proverb.  Now farewell, master, and be of good courage, for another good proverb says, ’Fortune smiles on the brave.’  Go now, master, my chamberlain awaits you in the antechamber.”

“I am going, your excellency,” said Gabriel Nietzel humbly.  “May almighty God be with us all, and guard my wife and child!”

He bowed low and reverentially, then strode hastily toward the door.

“Gabriel Nietzel, one word more!” called out the count, as the painter stood with his hand already upon the door knob.  He turned and slowly came back.  “Master Gabriel Nietzel,” continued the count, with a mocking laugh, “be so good as to give me the Electress’s letter.”

The painter drew forth his leather pocketbook, took out the open letter of recommendation, and handed it to the count.

But the latter smilingly rejected it.  “You may keep that, master; I have already read that.  The other, the second missive from the Electress, you must give me.”

Gabriel Nietzel shrank back, and gazed into the count’s large, glittering eyes.

“The other writing,” he murmured, “the second writing?”

“Why, yes, master, that secret writing, which you have naturally promised to shield with the last drop of your blood, and to hand inviolate into the hands of the Electoral Prince.  My God! we know how often such oaths are made, and that hardly one has ever been kept.  You have not been made court painter for nothing, with your salary of fifty dollars, free rent, and two suits of clothes.  You must give something in return.  Give me that second writing of the Electress, the one which you have sworn to hand only to the Electoral Prince; or rather, no, you shall not forswear yourself.  Just tell me where you have stuck it, and I shall take it for myself.”

“Your excellency, it sticks in my left breast pocket,” whispered Gabriel Nietzel.  The count laughed aloud, and with one movement drew forth from Master Gabriel’s left breast pocket a small packet, wound round with silken strings.  With cautious hand, extremely solicitous not to break the string, he untied it, and took out the paper found beneath.  Within this, indeed, lay a small, well-sealed letter.