Eugene Alexander, a despicable specimen of a despicable class, servilely rubbed his hands, and murmured, "The Herr Count is most generous, but indeed that is an easy matter for the Herr Count. Poor devil! I really am sorry for Malzin." Poor devil indeed! The old doctor was right, Fritz was going fast. Every afternoon at the same hour he had a high fever,--he looked like a ghost. In speaking he had a habit of contracting his underlip, which gave to his face the hard, pain-begotten lines with which the pre-Raphalites portrayed the dying Christ. Ready at any minute to drop from fatigue, he was yet driven forth by constant restlessness to go dragging over forest and field, obliged at ever-lessening intervals to rest upon a stile, or upon the steps of some way-side cross. There he would sit gazing abroad and repeating to himself, with the exaggerated appreciation that men always cherish for that of which they are deprived, that Schneeburg was the finest estate in Bohemia. When he strode through the golden stubble fields, the reapers would gather about him and with many a merry, kindly word encircle his limbs, in accordance with an ancient Bohemian custom, with wreaths of straw. He would respond with some friendly jest, and purchase his release by a gratuity more in accordance with his former means than with his present circumstances. The people were still loyal to him, to the peasants and day labourers he was always "_Our_ Herr Count." Whenever he appeared among them they ran to him, kissed his hands, and invoked countless blessings upon him. There had been a time when he protested impatiently against these rather obtrusive demonstrations, but now he took pleasure in them. He knew the people almost all by name, and frequently talked with them, when to be sure they never failed to make some complaint against their new master, under whom in point of fact they were very well off; but they none the less complained of him just to please their Herr Count.