It was near midnight when the travelers reached castle Wildenort. The servant said that the count was sleeping, and that the physician who lived in the valley was with him. The country doctor left the sickroom and came out into the ante-chamber to welcome the new arrivals. He was about to describe the case to Gunther, who, however, requested him not to do so until he had himself seen the patient. Accompanied by Irma and Bruno, he went into the sick-room. Eberhard lay in bed, his head propped up by pillows. His eyes were wide open, and, without showing the slightest emotion, he stared at those who entered, as if they were figures in a dream. "I greet you, Eberhard, with all my heart," said Gunther. The sick man's features twitched convulsively, and his eyelids rose quickly and as quickly fell again, while he gropingly put forth his hand toward his old friend. But the hand sank powerless on the coverlet. Gunther grasped it and held it fast. Irma stood as if rooted to the spot, unable to move or utter a word. "How are you, papa?" asked Bruno. With a sudden start, as if a shot had whizzed by his ear, Eberhard turned toward Bruno and motioned to him to leave the room. Irma knelt down at his bedside, while Eberhard passed his trembling hand over her face. It became wet with her tears. Suddenly, he drew it back, as if it had been touching a poisonous reptile. He averted his face and pressed his brow against the wall; and thus he lay for a long while. Neither Gunther nor Irma spoke a word. Their voices failed them in the presence of him who had been deprived of speech. And now Eberhard turned again and gently motioned his daughter to leave the room. She did so. Gunther remained alone with Eberhard. It was the first time in thirty years that the two friends had met. Eberhard passed Gunther's hand across his eyes, and then shook his head. Gunther said: "I know what you mean; you would like to weep, but cannot. Do you understand all I say to you?" The patient nodded affirmatively. "Then just imagine," continued Gunther, and his voice has a rich and comforting tone, "that the years we've been separated from each other were but one hour. Our measure of time is a different one. Do you still remember how you would often in enthusiastic moments exclaim: 'We've just been living centuries'?" There was again a convulsive twitching of the patient's features, just as when a weeping one is enlivened by a cheerful thought and would fain smile, but cannot. Eberhard attempted to trace letters on the coverlet, but Gunther found it difficult to decipher them. The sick man pointed to a table on which there lay books and manuscripts. Gunther brought several of them, but none was the right one. At last he brought a little manuscript book, the cover of which was inscribed with the title, "Self-redemption." The sick man seemed pleased, as if welcoming a fortunate occurrence. "You wrote this yourself. Shall I read some of it to you?"