With these words he rose and strode toward the door.  But ere he reached it his feeling heart got the better of his anger.  He turned and walked back to the bed, took the dying man’s ice-cold hand in his, and said gently: 

“My old comrade—­my brave old companion in arms! we must not part in anger.  Don’t you trust me any more?  Listen, my old friend, to what I say to you.  You are going on before to arrange quarters; then I will follow.  When I arrive at the gates of paradise, my first question to St. Peter will be, ‘Is my good old comrade, the honest, virtuous Henry, within?’ And should the sainted gatekeeper reply, ’No, he is not here; he is down below,’ then I shall say to him, ’I am very much obliged to you, old fellow, for your friendliness, but a paradise from which my old friend Henry is excluded is no place for me.  I am going down below to be with him.’  That is what I shall say, so help me Heaven!”

The sufferer who stood on the threshold of death strove to smile.  He could not return the pressure of his master’s hand, but he slowly and with painful effort turned his head so that his cold lips rested against the count’s hand.

“Yes—­yes,” he whispered, and his dim eyes brightened for an instant.  “If we were down there together—­you and I—­we should not have to stop long there; some one with her prayers would very soon win our release.”

Count Vavel suddenly beat his palm against his forehead, and exclaimed: 

“I never once thought of her!  Wait, my brave Henry.  I will return immediately.  I cannot allow you to have a priest, but I will bring an angel to your bedside.”

He hastened to Marie’s apartments.

“You have been weeping?” she exclaimed, looking up into his tear-stained eyes with deep concern.

“Yes, Marie; we are going to lose our poor old Henry.”

“Oh, my God!  How entirely alone we shall be then!”

“Will you come with me to his bedside?  The sight of you will cheer his last moments.”

“Yes, yes; come quickly.”

A wonderful light brightened Henry’s face when he saw his young mistress.  She moved softly to the head of his bed, and with her delicate fingers gently stroked the cheeks of the trusty old servant.

He closed his eyes and sighed when her hand touched his face.

“Is he smiling?” whispered Marie to Ludwig, gazing with compassionate awe on the distorted countenance.  Then she bent over him and said: 

“Henry—­my good Henry, would you like me to pray with you?”

She knelt beside the bed and in a feeling tone repeated the beautiful prayer which the good Pere Lacordaire composed for those who journey to the other world, pausing from time to time to let the dying man repeat the words after her.

Henry’s tongue became heavier and heavier as he repeated, with visible effort, the soul-inspiring words.

Then Marie repeated the Lord’s Prayer.  Even Ludwig could not do otherwise than bend his knee upon the chair by which he stood, and bow his skeptical head, while the innocent maid and his dying servant prayed together.