And as for the baron, his loss was greater still. He had just had a hope of rescue, now he fell again into an abyss beyond his fathoming. His notes of hand were in some stranger's possession. If the thief understood how to make use of them--nay, if the thief were only apprehended, he was lost; and if they were never found again, still he was equally lost. He was not in a condition to make any arrangement with Ehrenthal; he was not in a condition to pay any of his creditors; he was lost beyond possibility of deliverance. Before him lay poverty, failure, disgrace. Again there recurred to his mind that court of honor, his fellow-officers, and the unfortunate young man who had destroyed himself. He had been obliged to view the body; he knew how one looks who has died thus; he knew too, now, how a man comes to die. Once he had shuddered at the image of the corpse, now he shuddered at it no longer. His lips moved, and as in a dream he said to himself, "That is the last resource." The door was now torn open, a hideous head appeared, and a wild cry was heard, "Come up, Hirsch Ehrenthal; your son is dying." Then the apparition vanished, Ehrenthal rushed off with a shriek, and the baron tottered out of the house. When the father fell down beside his son's bed, a white hand was lifted up once more, then a corpse fell back. Bernhard was gone out into the sunshine. The evening was warm. A light mist hid the stars, but there was still a pleasant twilight. The balmy breath of the flowering shrubs in the public gardens was wafted into the streets. The passers-by returned slowly home, sorry to leave the sweet south breeze, and shut themselves up in-doors. The beggar stretched himself comfortably out on the threshold of the stately house; every young fellow who had a sweetheart led her out with him through the streets. He who was weary forgot his past day's work; he who was sad felt his sadness less on such an evening as this; he who was alone the whole year felt impelled to seek companionship to-day. Groups stood laughing and chattering at the doors; children were playing; the caged nightingale sang her sweetest song--sang of the early summer--that happy time when life is sweet and fond hopes blossom.