"Do not die--do not die," he implored him in anxious expectation--"Only say his name--the name they gave the boy in the convent--"
The dying man's lips moved and muttered as though to say "Do--" but he could no more, his breath failed him. The Count took him in his arms and raised his head--he would not let him die--he must pronounce that name on which all depended.
"Don--Don--" he stammered, and his very pulses stood still while listened.
"--nat--" murmured Florentinus with a last effort.
"Donatus!" cried the Count, no longer master of himself.
The dying man bowed assent--a peaceful smile overspread his face and his head fell back--no more now than a noble marble image.
The Count's blood boiled as he looked at the peaceful corpse; it mounted to his forehead and hands till his veins stood out like cords, and his eyes were ominously blood-shot.
The brethren were in the utmost terror. "He was talking nonsense, my Lord, do not believe what he said, he had long been childish." But it was of no use. The Count, without vouchsafing them a glance, walked straight out of the house, flung himself on horseback and rode madly off, the blood trickling from the flanks of his tired beast--towards Marienberg.
"Oh! luckless day!" cried the Abbot, when the brethren who had gone to seek Eusebius brought down his dead body from the western tower.
"Oh! luckless day!" was echoed by the brethren, who from the upper hall had seen a rider spring from a horse which fell down dead at the door. It was Count Reichenberg. Grim rage sat on his brow, grim rage had ridden the noble horse to death, grim rage flapped her angry wings above his head as he knocked at the door with the hilt of his sword.