e again to-night. I
should like to know if it is the case, and--Well, farewell, Mrs. Culwin,
and if you learn anything new, share it with me. Perhaps I shall come over
to the castle myself to-night."

He held out his hand to the old woman, and, as he pressed hers, he let a
well-filled purse slip into it. He cut off her expressions of gratitude by
a short nod of the head, and waved her toward the door. The castellan's
wife withdrew, and, absorbed in deep thought, Count Schwarzenberg remained
alone in his cabinet. With hands folded behind his back, he walked for a
long while to and fro. His pace was ever steady, ever composed; his
countenance seemed quite cheerful, quite tranquil, and yet his soul was
stirred by passion and a storm was raging in his breast.

"He is alive--he is still alive," he said to himself. "One could almost
believe that he has a star above which watches over him and preserves him.
It has been ever so from childhood; and at times when I think of him I
experience an unwonted sensation--I am afraid of him. He is my deadly
enemy, I know it. If I did not thrust him aside, he would do so with me.
If I did not kill him, he would kill me. It was a mere act of self-defense
to put him out of the way. If it miscarries, I am lost, for I shall not
soon have courage for a second attempt. I am a coward in this young man's
presence, I am afraid of him! He is my fate, my evil fate! And I can not
avert it, can undertake nothing more. I lack a tool. Oh, what a blockhead
I was to dismiss Nietzel! His own sins were the scourge by which I lashed
him into action. He was as wax in my hands, and if he failed this time, he
must have tried it again. I would have driven him to it, and he would have
been forced to obey. If the Electoral Prince should now get well, Nietzel
would be glad, for he is a soft-hearted fool, and had it not been for
Rebecca's sake, he could never have brought himself to commit the deed.
Even while he executed it his heart bled, and--My God!" he suddenly
exclaimed, "what a thought bursts upon me! If this Nietzel--"

He was silent and sank into an armchair, putting his hands before his
face, to shut out the outer world, to be undisturbed in his deep train of
thought.

Long he sat there, silent and motionless. Then he let his hands glide
from before his face, which had now again resumed its haughty, composed
expression, and arose from his seat.

"I must know what is the meaning of this ghost story," he