A week had passed. Our band had separated. There
has never been the least suspicion thrown upon any of
us. We were accordingly not liable to detection, after we
had once dissolved our body. I took up my abode for a
short time in Brunswick. While there I received a letter
from Skamp: he informed me that there was no danger
in my returning if I chose. Several of the members of
our late honourable society were in Göttingen; among

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the rest Trump Von Toggenburg and Pappenheim.
They were both shortly to be married on the same day.
They were anxious that I should be present at the ceremony.
The latter part of the letter afflicted me deeply.
To my horror and dismay, I was informed that Rabenmark
had returned, had met his brother-in-law, Count
Leopold Wallenstein, the son of the commandant, and
had slain him in the streets. The rest of the history
was to be related to me by word of mouth.

I hastened to Göttingen. I found the smuggler. I
eagerly demanded news of Rabenmark. He told me
that immediately after the murder he had surrendered
himself to justice, and that he was now in prison. His
trial was to take place on the morrow, and that there was
no doubt he would be condemned to death.

“My poor dear disciple!” said the singular narrator,
wiping a real tear from his cheek: “I took such a pride
in him. He was my favourite of all of you. Alas! that
he should die so prematurely.”

Together we went to visit Rabenmark. We found
him chained in a dungeon. He was grown haggard.
His features were sunken, and his eye like a maniac's.
He informed me, in a few words, of his whole horrible
history. Immediately after his last interview with Bertha,
the commandant discovered their intercourse. A
faithless servant betrayed their secret. The Count even
believed that their intercourse had been criminal, for the
infernal servant had concealed, or was ignorant of the
important fact of their marriage.

Incensed at the dishonour which he believed to have
been cast on his illustrious name, the iron-hearted Wallenstein
summoned his daughter. Unmindful of and
disbelieving her protestations of innocence, her entreaties

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and her tears, he immured her in a chamber of his own
house. She refused her food—she became ill. Nothing
softened him. By and by, the same servant who had
betrayed her to her father brought her an exaggerated
history of the capture of her husband. He informed her,
moreover, that the commandant had thrown him in
prison, and had sworn that he should be executed the
next day. The unfortunate Bertha was already, from
the effects of exhaustion and agony of mind, the victim
of a violent fever. She became delirious. In the course
of the night her fever increased to frenzy. In a fit of insanity,
she cast herself from the window, which was in
the topmost story of the house. She was dashed to
pieces.

“I saw her body, Morton,” said the fox, when he had
finished relating, in the calmest manner, this short and
fearful history. “I saw her body, and the next instant I
met her brother. He had ever been my enemy, more
implacable than her father. I slew him on the spot.
Still my vengeance is not quite complete; but the hour
has almost come.”

As he ended, a fearful expression passed across his
features, and then he relapsed into a state of apparent
apathy.

This lasted a few minutes, and presently afterward he
aroused himself, and asked the jailor, who, of course, had
not quitted us, what had become of the coffin-maker?
The smuggler had left the cell for a moment. The jailor
called him and he returned.

“I understand,” said Rabenmark, looking towards the
jailor, “that there is little doubt of my condemnation and
immediate execution.”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

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“I suppose,” he continued with a ghastly kind of mirth,
“the authorities will not object to my bespeaking my own
coffin. I wish to be buried as becomes a gentleman,
although I die a felon's death. Skamp, be sure to place
a silver shield upon the lid, and engrave my arms upon
it. Here is my signet; you can copy from that.”

As he spoke, he drew his seal-ring from his finger, and
gave it to the smuggler. Skamp gave him a significant
look.

Soon after this we all retired. As I took leave of him,
Rabenmark threw his arms about my neck, and kissed
me.

“We shall never meet again, except for a moment in
the judgment-hall to-morrow,” said he.

“I shall visit you afterwards,” I interrupted. “I can
obtain permission easily.”

“Well, well—perhaps. Adieu!—Morton, adieu for
ever!”

I left the place. I was suffocated with emotion. I
passed a sleepless night. The next morning I hastened
to the council-chamber. An early hour had been appointed
for the trial.

I entered the room. The commandant and the civil
government of the town were in their places. The judges
wore a gloomy look. The prisoner was seated, out of
respect to his rank, and perhaps in consideration of his
evident bodily illness. The trial was short. No defence
was made. The judge inquired if he could say
nothing in extenuation of his guilt. He obstinately refused
to speak. The senior judge read with due solemnity
the accusation and the conviction. He concluded by
passing sentence of death on the Baron Otto Von Rabenmark.

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The execution was appointed for the following day
but one.

The guards went forward to conduct the prisoner
back to his dungeon. He motioned them away. They
retired several paces. Rabenmark arose.

“My Lord Judge,” he began, “you have asked me
what I had to urge in extenuation of my offence. I answered
nothing; for there was nothing I could urge.
There is another question which I could have answered
in a manner more satisfactory. I have much to say in
aggravation of my offence. The catalogue of my crimes
is not complete. There are two more deaths which I
shall have to answer for at another tribunal than yours—
if indeed there be a future judgment, as your priests
inform us.”

The judge made a gesture of surprise. Even the
gloomy Wallenstein, who was next him, and within
arm's length of Rabenmark, became attentive, and a little
agitated. The secretary seized his pen to note down
the new disclosures. Rabenmark resumed.

“I am the last of my race. The last of a house,
which has been illustrated by the achievements of a hundred
heroes, ye have condemned to die a felon's death.
But ye have yet to learn that a Rabenmark will at least
be no common felon. If he be crushed, his fall shall at
least be signalized by no ordinary catastrophe. My
bride—my true and lawful bride, the daughter of this
proud man—is dead; and Leopold Wallenstein is dead;
and Otto Von Rabenmark, as ye think, is in two days
to lay down his head on the executioner's block;—but
there is yet another victim whom you dream not of.”

“Whom mean you?—Speak!” cried the judge with
earnestness.

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

“The Count of Wallenstein!” shouted Rabenmark,
and as he spoke he suddenly drew a dagger, strode forward
to the commandant, and struck him to the heart.

He fell without a groan. The weapon remained,
buried to the hilt, in the wound. For a moment all present
seemed paralyzed. During the instant's delay, Rabenmark
slipped his signet from his finger, plucked out
the stone, and applied the large hollow ring to his mouth.
All was done with the rapidity of thought.

The judge, recovering himself, shouted to the guard
to secure the murderer.

“You are too late, my lord,” said Rabenmark. “The
executioner is cheated. The felon shall not die a felon's
death. Bertha Wallenstein, thou art revenged!”

As the last words passed his lips, he fell a corpse.

Through the agency of the smuggler, a potent and
subtle poison had been procured, and introduced into the
cavity of the ring. The executioner was baulked.

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