ter to seven," he
said; "in fifteen minutes there will be one lunatic less in Germany!" A
few minutes afterward a carriage rolled down the avenue of the palace of
Schoenbrunn. The emperor had departed.

At the same time the room opened in which Staps had been confined for
three days, under the close surveillance of two gendarmes. An officer
entered; eight soldiers, shouldering their muskets, drew up in front of
the door. Frederick Staps met the officer with a serene smile. He still
wore the short black velvet coat, fastened around his slender waist by a
broad leather belt, his neck surrounded by a white collar, on which his
long hair fell in dense masses. During the three days of his captivity
he had not undressed, taken no food, and even abstained from sleep. His
time was occupied in preparing for death, and in writing letters to his
beloved Anna and his old father. These letters, folded and carefully
directed, he placed in the belt which the fatal knife had adorned three
days before.

"Sir," said Staps, offering his hand to the officer, "I suppose you come
for me?"

"It will soon be seven o'clock," replied the officer, in a sad,
compassionate tone.

"Oh, sir," exclaimed Staps, "do not pity me! I shall die joyfully. But I
have a favor to ask of you. I should like to send my last love-greetings
to my father, and the young lady to whom I was engaged. Will you be kind
enough to send my letters to them? You hesitate? Reply to me, and
consider that a dying man always should be told the truth."

"Well, sir," replied the officer, "I am not permitted to forward these
letters to them. Not a word is to be said about your fate; it must
remain a secret."

"Ah, the tyrant is afraid lest my destiny should become generally known.
He wishes to hide it in obscurity; but my name, and that for which I
die, will not sink into oblivion. The day of freedom will dawn yet on my
native land, and my grave will be known and visited by my German
brethren. You will not forward my letters?"

"I am not allowed to do so, sir."

"Well, then I will forward them myself," exclaimed Staps, drawing the
letters from his belt and tearing them into small pieces, which he threw
away. "Go! my greetings and adieus!" he said; "let the winds bear ye
into the quiet parsonage of my old father, and the chamber of my
faithful Anna! Tell my countrymen of poor Frederick Staps, who wished to
save Germany, and could only die for it!--Now come, sir, let us go!"