ry--so ill that I would not attempt to
treat you. We must have a doctor."

"He--he won't come--here; he is--afraid. Besides, there is nothing--the
matter with--any part of me but--but my--tongue. I can--can
hardly--move--it."

"You must not die, Henry--you dare not!" in an agony of terror exclaimed
Ludwig. "What would become of me--of Marie?"

"That--that is what--troubles--troubles me--most, Herr Count. Who
will--take my--place? Perhaps--that old soldier--with the machine leg--"

"No! no! no! Oh, Henry, no one could take your place. You are to me what
his arms are to a soldier. You are the guardian of all my thoughts--my
only friend and comrade in this solitude."

The poor old servant tried to draw his distorted features into a smile.

"I am--not sorry for--myself--Herr Count; only for you two. I have
earned--a rest; I have--lost everything--and have long ago--ceased to
hope for--anything. I feel that--this is--the end. No doctor can--help
me. I know--I am--dying." He paused to breathe heavily for several
moments, then added: "There is--something--I should--like to
have--before--before I--go."

"What is it, Henry?"

"I know you--will be--angry--Herr Count, but--I cannot--cannot die
without--consolation."

"Consolation?" echoed Ludwig.

"Yes--the last consolation--for the--dying. I have not--confessed
for--sixteen years; and the--multitude of my--sins--oppresses me.
Pray--pray, Herr Count, send for--a priest."

"Impossible, Henry. Impossible!"

"I beseech you--in the name of God--let me see a priest. Have mercy--on
your poor old servant, Herr Count. My soul feels--the torments of hell;
I see the everlasting flames--and the sneering devils--"

"Henry, Henry," impatiently remonstrated his master, "don't be childish.
You are only tormenting yourself with fancies. Does the soldier who
falls in battle have time to confess his sins? Who grants him
absolution?"

"Perhaps--were I in--the midst of the turmoil of battle--I should not
feel this agony of mind. But here--there is so much time to think. Every
sin that I have committed--rises before me like--like a troop of
soldiers that--have been mustered for roll-call."

"Pray cease these idle fancies, Henry. Of what are you thinking? You
want to tell a priest that you are living here under a false name--tell
him that I, too, am an impostor? You would say to him: 'When the
revolutionists imprisoned my royal master and his family, to behead them
afterward, I clot