nothing to give her, nothing,
absolutely, save the crazy love of a wretched madman. He could not even
repay her the miserable money which had cost her so dear. Out of his
dreams of fortune there was not so much as a handful of coin left to give
the girl who had given all she had, who had sold her hair to save his
honour. With frightful vividness the truth came over him. That honour of
his, he had pledged it in the recklessness of his madness. She had saved
it out of love, and he had not even--but no--there was a new memory
there--love he had for her, passionate, tender, true, a love that had not
its place among the terrors of the past. But--was not this a new dream, a
new delusion of his shaken brain? And if he loved her, was it not yet more
terrible to have deceived the loved one, more monstrous, more infamous,
more utterly damnable? The figure of her rose before him, pitiful, thin,
weak, with outstretched hands and trusting eyes--and he had taken of her
all she had. Neither heart, nor body, nor brain could bear more.

"Vjera! God! Forgive me!" With the cry of a breaking heart the poor Count
fell forward from his seat and lay in a heap, motionless upon the floor.

Only his stiffening fingers, crooked and contorted, worked nervously for a
few minutes, scratching at the rough boards. Then all was quite still in
the little room.

There was a noise outside, and some one opened the door. The Cossack stood
upon the threshold, holding his hand up against the lamp, for he was
dazzled as he entered from the outer darkness of the stairs. He looked
about, and at first saw nothing, for the Count had fallen in the shadow of
the table.

Then, seeing where he lay, Johann Schmidt came forward and knelt down, and
with some difficulty turned his friend upon his back.

"Dead--poor Count!" he exclaimed in a low voice, bending down over the
ghastly face.

The pale eyes were turned upward and inward, and the forehead was damp.
Schmidt unbuttoned the threadbare coat from the breast. There was no
waistcoat under it--nothing but a patched flannel shirt. A quantity of
papers were folded neatly in a flat package in the inner pocket. Schmidt
put down his head and listened for the beatings of the heart.

"So it is over!" he said mournfully, as he straightened himself upon his
knees. Then he took one of the extended hands in his, and pressed it, and
looked into the poor man's face, and felt the tears coming into his eyes.

"You were a good