After the holy man had left him, his lips moved incessantly, but no one could understand what he said. Towards morning, the sun of Provence was shining warmly and brightly into the room and on his bed, when he suddenly threw his arm above his head, and half speaking, half singing to Hans Eitelfritz's melody, let fall from his lips the words: "In fortune, good fortune." A few minutes after he was dead. Moor closed his eyes. Ulrich knelt weeping beside the bed, and kissed his poor friend's cold hand. When he rose, the artist was gazing with silent reverence at the jester's features; Ulrich followed his eyes, and imagined he was standing in the presence of a miracle, for the harsh, bitter, troubled face had obtained a new expression, and was now the countenance of a peaceful, kindly man, who had fallen asleep with pleasant memories in his heart. ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: No one we learn to hate more easily, than the benefactor Once laughed at a misfortune, its sting loses its point To expect gratitude is folly Whoever condemns, feels himself superior