“How did his illness come on?” I asked.

“Suddenly, ten years ago,” was the reply.

All at once the honest fellow seemed to be recollecting himself.  He took from his pocket a short pipe, filled it, and having lighted it—­

“One evening,” said he, “I was sitting alone with the count in the armoury of the castle.  It was about Christmas time.  We had been hunting wild boars the whole day in the valleys of the Rhethal, and had returned at night bringing home with us two of our boar-hounds ripped open from head to tail.  It was just as cold as it is to-night, with snow and frost.  The count was pacing up and down the room with his chin upon his breast and his hands crossed behind him, like a man in profound thought.  From time to time he stopped to watch the gathering snow on the high windows, and I was warming myself in the chimney corner, bewailing my dead hounds, and bestowing maledictions on all the wild boars that infest the Schwartzwald.  Everybody at Nideck had been asleep a couple of hours, and not a sound could be heard but the tread and the clank of the count’s heavy spurred boots upon the flags.  I remember well that a crow, no doubt driven by a gust of wind, came flapping its wings against the window-panes, uttering a discordant shriek, and how the sheets of snow fell from the windows, and the windows suddenly changed from white to black—­”

“But what has all this to do with your master’s illness?” I interrupted.

“Let me go on—­you will soon see.  At that cry the count suddenly gathered himself together with a shuddering movement, his eyes became fixed with a glassy stare, his cheeks were bloodless, and he bent his head forward just like a hunter catching the sound of his approaching game.  I went on warming myself, and I thought, ‘Won’t he soon go to bed now?’ for, to tell you the truth, I was overcome with fatigue.  All these details, Fritz, are still present in my memory.  Scarcely had the bird of ill omen croaked its unearthly cry when the old clock struck eleven.  At that moment the count turns on his heel—­he listens, his lips tremble, I can see him staggering like a drunken man.  He stretches out his hands, his jaws are tightly clenched, his eyes staring and white.  I cried, ’My lord, what is the matter?’ but he began to laugh discordantly like a madman, stumbled, and fell upon the stone floor, face downwards.  I called for help; servants came round.  Sebalt took the count by the shoulders; we removed him to a bed near the window; but just as I was loosening the count’s neckerchief—­for I was afraid it was apoplexy—­the countess came and flung herself upon the body of her father, uttering such heartrending cries that the very remembrance of them makes me shudder.”

Here Gideon took his pipe from his lips, knocked the ashes out upon the pommel of his saddle, and pursued his tale in a saddened voice.