"You must not die, Henry—you dare not!" in an agony of terror exclaimed Ludwig. "What would become of me—of Marie?"
"That—that is what—troubles—troubles me—most, Herr Count. Who will—take my—place? Perhaps—that old soldier—with the machine leg—"
"No! no! no! Oh, Henry, no one could take your place. You are to me what his arms are to a soldier. You are the guardian of all my thoughts—my only friend and comrade in this solitude."
The poor old servant tried to draw his distorted features into a smile.
"I am—not sorry for—myself—Herr Count; only for you two. I have earned—a rest; I have—lost everything—and have long ago—ceased to hope for—anything. I feel that—this is—the end. No doctor can—help me. I know—I am—dying." He paused to breathe heavily for several moments, then added: "There is—something—I should—like to have—before—before I—go."
"What is it, Henry?"
"I know you—will be—angry—Herr Count, but—I cannot—cannot die without—consolation."
"Consolation?" echoed Ludwig.
"Yes—the last consolation—for the—dying. I have not—confessed for—sixteen years; and the—multitude of my—sins—oppresses me. Pray—pray, Herr Count, send for—a priest."
"Impossible, Henry. Impossible!"