"Go at once to the judge-advocate and tell him to have all pending suits drawn up and ready to submit to the court at midnight, when it will hold an extra session. At three o'clock all the verdicts must be in my hands; at five let the accused stand ready to hear their sentences. The garrison meanwhile is to be kept under arms. Now go; despatch is the word!" The governor turned again to his visitor. "Are you satisfied with my promptness?" he asked. Alfonsine answered with another question. "Is Richard Baradlay one of those whose cases will come up to-night?" "His name is among the first on the list," was the reply. "Do not forget, your Excellency," urged the other, "that he has done us more harm than any one else." "I know all about him, Baroness, and his case shall receive our immediate attention. And now I thank you for bringing me this word so promptly; I thank you heartily." "Good night." "Ha! ha! and a royal good night it will be for me!" exclaimed the governor when his guest had gone. All that night Alfonsine Plankenhorst never closed her eyes. Fiendish joy and nervous excitement frightened sleep from her pillow. She was impatient for morning to come, that she might take the first train for Vienna and revel in her poor cousin's grief and despair. She counted the hours as they dragged slowly by. Twelve o'clock. The court was now in session; the accused were hearing the charges read out against them; they were being asked if they had any defence to offer; they had none. Then they were led back to their cells. One o'clock. The verdicts were being considered; no one said a word in the prisoners' favour; the vote was taken. Two o'clock. The verdicts were being recorded. Three o'clock. The man with the bandaged head was signing each sentence. Four o'clock. All was in readiness. Whoever had slept in that prison was now, at any rate, on his feet and was being told to feast his eyes for the last time on this beautiful world, on the rosy flush of dawning day, and on the dying of the twinkling stars in the eastern sky. Unable to lie longer in bed, Alfonsine rose and went down-stairs. A cab stood in the courtyard. She ordered the porter to bring down her hand-bag, and then drove to the judge-advocate's house. She knew him well,--as the sexton knows the undertaker,--and she felt sure of finding him at home and awake. She was shown into his presence without delay. The judge-advocate was a man of few words. "Have you finished your night's work?" asked Alfonsine. "Yes." "What were the sentences?" "Death." "In every case?" "Without exception." "And Richard Baradlay?" "Is on the list." "He is condemned?" "To death." Alfonsine pressed the judge-advocate's hand and hastened away to her train. The city clocks were striking five,--the last hour they would ever strike for Richard Baradlay, said she, as she hurried on, feeding her imagination with the last grim scenes of his earthly career.