After a few moments Countess Frankenstein appeared, she was pale and exhausted, her eyes wearied with watching and red with weeping.
She glanced with surprise at the count, whom she had seen once or twice in society, and whose presence at that moment was inexplicable to her.
Stielow hastened up to her, seized her hand impatiently, and exclaimed in a trembling voice,
"For God's sake! how is she? How is Clara?"
"Compose yourself, my dear Stielow," said the countess calmly, though with a slight sob in her voice, "the hand of the Lord has smitten us heavily; if He does not work a miracle, we must lose her!"
And she broke down and wept quietly.
"But my God! how can it be? what did the doctor say?" cried the young man, with a look of bewildered horror. "What is this wound?"
"Clara must have touched some dead soldier, the poison from some deadly wound has got into her blood, there is scarcely a hope of saving her," she said in a low voice.
"I must go to her, I must see her!" cried von Stielow wildly.
"Her confessor is with her," said the countess, "telling her of comfort and resignation; let her first be reconciled to God!"