The Count sat there fingering the letter-weight in the shape of a guillotine. Suddenly he seized it, and looked questioningly at the old man, who nodded in the affirmative. The letter-weight was thrown into the paper-basket. The great bell ceased ringing, the room was quiet, and the old man, his arms folded over his breast, spoke as though with a sigh of gratitude. “The Revolution is over.” “_This_ Revolution!” “‘Tribulation worketh patience; patience, experience; experience, hope; and hope maketh not ashamed!’” STRINDBERG’S DEATH-BED (From the _Aftonbladet_, Stockholm, May 15, 1912) The last time that Strindberg was in full possession of his senses was late on Monday afternoon (May 13th). He recognised his daughter Greta, who sat by his bed, and her husband, Dr. Philp. He was fully aware that the end was near. He made a sign that he wished to have his Bible, which lay on the table by the bed. They gave it him; he took it in his hand and said: “All that is personal is now obliterated. I have done with life and closed the account. This is the only truth.” He kissed his daughter, but only said, “Dear Greta.” Then he said to Dr. Philp, “Are you still here, Henry?” After talking a little more, his last utterance was, “Now I have said my last word. Now I talk no more.” He kept his Bible so closely clasped to his breast as though that were the only thing he had to hold fast before the end. So Stromboli retreated in the gloom, Flinging red flame and molten lava high, A flaring portent: We, who passed it by, Carry that lurid memory to the tomb; Yet round its crater living flowers bloom, The vine, fig, olive grow and fructify, Over it laughs the blue Sicilian sky, A paradise upon the verge of doom. As fiery as that red volcanic blast, Through years he wrestled with his unseen Foe, Wailing in pain “I will not let Thee go Unless Thou bless me who have held Thee fast,”-- And thus, like Jacob, from his overthrow, He rose a cripple, but a prince at last. End of Project Gutenberg’s Historical Miniatures, by August Strindberg