There was always one line of retreat open, and that was--Death. Perhaps his life was really hanging on as slight a thread as this bit of gossamer. But then, was not his love for that very reason both madness and sacrilege? Was that love which at bottom thought, after all, of itself only, and thought not first and last of this? Could one, according to human judgment, really undertake the guarantee for the well-being of those whom one ... made believe one loved? Whether, for her, weal would not swiftly change to woe, whence, even though time and that youthful vigour which refuses to be crushed were to heal the grievous wounds, there could never again blossom forth a full, whole happiness? And thus, and for this reason, to have henceforth, like humdrum everyday folks, to dread death, when he had already again and again looked into his hollow eyes! There was some noise behind him, and he started in terror. It was only Konski who had come back bearing a letter. The post which was due in the morning had arrived now, and there had been lots of letters for the other ladies and gentlemen too, and some of them would seem to be mighty important, for My Lady had given orders to put dinner back half an hour, so the Herr Doctor could anyhow read his letter in peace. Konski had gone away again, and Bertram held the letter still unopened in his hand. How odd that his physician and friend should write to him just now--that the busiest of men should so swiftly reply to his own letter, in which, on the second day of his visit, he had, as requested, given news of his state of health, a letter which really called for no reply at all. Was his friend now going to tell him that he ... was doomed to speedy death? Well, the letter could not have come at a more opportune moment. With trembling hand he broke the seal and read this--