riek went
with him, ringing ever in his ears. It drove him onward like a fury, and
his hair stood on end and his heart beat to bursting.

He had heard it once before, that death cry!

In the stillness of night it had sounded that time in the castle of
Berlin, when a pale woman had knelt at his feet and pleaded for her life!
Often had he heard it since; it had awakened him from sleep, it had often
startled him when engaged in merry conversation with his friends; at the
festive board it had drowned the music as far as he was concerned, this
death cry, this Fury of his conscience!

At last he reached his cabinet. He threw himself into a chair. God be
thanked, he was alone here! He had quiet and solitude here!

He surveyed the room and an infinite feeling of relief and security came
over him.

Alone!

"Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel!" was whispered in his heart, and he
looked timidly around, as if he feared to see him in each corner. Then a
shriek resounded in his ear--that death cry!

It had penetrated into his quiet cabinet, she stood behind him, she
screamed in his ear, "Gabriel Nietzel! Rebecca!"

Perfectly unmanned, the count leaned back in his easychair, the sweat
standing in great drops upon his brow. He no longer even remembered that
he had come there to read his son's important letter! His soul was
shattered in its inmost depths. Gabriel Nietzel was there again! A murder
had been committed in his house--at his table! Committed, too, by his own
servant, his favorite, his friend! He durst not pardon him; he must punish
the murderer according to the law. He must pronounce sentence of death on
him, who had slain his fellow-man! He foresaw this in the future! He saw
himself as judge, the viceregent of God and justice, opposite the pale
criminal, his servant, his friend, upon whom he pronounced sentence!

He! Would his lips dare to utter a sentence of death? Dared the murderer
condemn?

"Gabriel Nietzel! Gabriel Nietzel! Rebecca! Rebecca!" screamed the voice
behind his chair. But hark! what noise is that? What means that confused
jumble of groans and yells and shouts--that howling as of fierce and
sweeping winds, that roar as of the mighty deep? What is that so like the
rolling of thunder? Are those wolflike howls the voices of men? Is that
the tramp of human feet? Before his windows it surges and dashes, howls
and roars!

With difficulty Schwarzenberg rises from his chair, and, creeping to the
window, co