The lord of Nideck was in a dying state.  
What can science do in presence of the great mortal between Death and Life? At the hour, when the invisible wrestlers are together body to body and limb to limb, panting, each in turn and , what avails the healing art? One can but watch, and tremble, and listen!
 
At times the struggle seems suspended—a has sounded; Life has into her hold. She is resting; she is collecting the courage of despair. But the enemy beats at the gates; he bursts in; then Life springs to the rescue, and again grapples with her . The strife is renewed with fresh fuel added to the fire of mortal energy as the fatal issue draws closer and nearer.
 
And the patient, himself the field of battle, weltering in the cold sweat of death, the eye set and the arm powerless, can do nothing for himself. His breathing, sometimes short, broken, and , sometimes long, deep, laboured, and heavy, indicates the varying phases of this dreadful struggle.
 
The bystanders watch each other's faces, and they think, "The day will come when we in our turns shall be the field of the same strife, and Death will bear us away into the grave, his , as the spider carries away the fly." But the true life, the only life, the soul, spreading her wings, will speed her flight to another world, with the cry, "I have fought the good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith!" And Death, disappointed of its , will look up at the being, unable to follow, and holding in its clutches only a cold and decaying , soon to be a handful of dust. "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" O best and only , the hope and belief in the final triumph of justice, the certainty of immortal life through Jesus Christ the ! Cruel indeed is he who would rob man of the chief brightness and glory of life!
 
Towards midnight the Count of Nideck seemed almost gone; the agony of death was at hand; the broken, weakened pulse indicated the sinking of the vital powers; then, it might return to a more active state; but there seemed no hope.
 
My only duty left was to stay and see this unhappy man die.
 
I was exhausted with and anxiety; whatever art could do I had tried.
 
I told Sperver to sit up, and close his master's eyes in death. The poor faithful fellow was in the utmost ; he reproached himself with his involuntary cry—"Count of Nideck—what are you doing?" and tore his hair in bitter .
 
I went away alone to Hugh Lupus's tower, having had scarcely any time to take food, but I did not feel the want of it.
 
There was a bright fire on the ; I threw myself dressed upon the bed, and sleep soon came to relieve my weight of —that heavy sleep broken by the consciousness that you may any minute be awoke by tears and lamentations.
 
I was sleeping thus, with my face turned towards the fire, and as it often happens, the flame fitfully rising, and falling threw a fluttering, light like those of ruddy flapping wings against the walls, and wearied still more my dropping .
 
Lost in a dreamy , I was half opening my eyes to see the cause of these alternate lights and shadows, but the strangest sight surprised me.
 
Close by the hearth, hardly revealed by the feeble light of a few dying embers, I recognised with dismay the dark profile of the Black Plague!
 
She sat upon a low stool, and was evidently warming herself.
 
At first I thought myself deceived by my senses, which would have been natural enough after the exciting scenes of the last few days; I raised myself upon my elbow, gazing with my eyes starting with fear and horror.
 
It was she indeed! I lay , for there she sat calm and immovable, with her hands clasped over her skinny knees, just as I had seen her in the snow, with her long scraggy neck outstretched, her hooked nose, her compressed lips.
 
How had the Black Pest got here? How had she found her way into this high tower crowning the dangerous ? Everything that Sperver had told me of this mysterious being seemed to be coming true! And now the unaccountable behaviour of Lieverlé, so fiercely against the wall, seemed clear as the daylight. I myself close up into the , hardly daring to breathe, and staring upon this motionless profile just as a mouse out of its hole fixes its paralysed stare upon the cat that is watching for it.
 
The old woman stirred no more than the rock-hewn pillars on each side of the hearthstone, and her lips were inarticulate sounds.
 
My heart was palpitating, my fears increased momentarily during the long silence, made more startling by the motionless supernatural figure that sat there before me.
 
This had lasted a quarter of an hour when, the fire a splinter of fir-wood, a flash of light broke out, the shaving twisted and flamed, and a few rays of light to the end of the room.
 
That jet was sufficient to show me that the creature was clothed in an old dress of rich purple silk as stiff as cardboard, with a violet pattern; there was a massive upon her left wrist, and a gold arrow stuck through her thick grey hair twisted over the back of her head. It was like an out of the ages past.
 
Still the Plague could have had no hostile intentions towards me, or she might easily have taken advantage of my sleep to have put them in execution.
 
That thought was beginning to give me some confidence, when suddenly she rose from her seat and with slow steps approached my bed, holding in her hand a torch which she had just lighted. I then observed that her eyes were and haggard.
 
I made an effort to rise and cry aloud, but not a muscle of my body would obey my wishes, not a breath came to my lips; and the old woman, bending over me between the curtains, fixed her stare upon me with a strange unearthly smile. I wanted to call for help, I wanted to drive her from me, but her stare seemed to fascinate and paralyse me, just as that of the serpent fixes the little bird motionless before it.
 
During this speechless contemplation minutes seemed like hours. What was she about to do? I was ready for any event.
 
Suddenly she turned her head, went round upon her heel, listened, strode across the room, and opened the door.
 
At last I recovered a little courage; an effort of the will brought me to my feet as if I were acted on by a spring; I after her footsteps; she with one hand was holding her torch on high, and with the other kept the door open.
 
I was about to seize her by the hair, when at the end of the long gallery, under the Gothic archway of the castle leading to the ramparts, I saw—a tall figure.
 
It was the Count of Nideck!
 
The Count of Nideck, whom I had thought a dying man, clad in a huge wolf-skin thrown with its upper projecting grimly over his eyes like a visor, the formidable claws hanging over each shoulder, and the tail dragging behind him along the flags.
 
He wore heavy shoes, a silver clasp gathered the wolf-skin round his neck, and his whole aspect, but for the ice-cold deathly expression of his face, proclaimed the man born for command—the master!
 
In the presence of such an personage my ideas became vague and confused. Flight was no longer possible, yet I had the presence of mind to throw myself into the embrasure of the window.
 
The count entered my room with his eyes fixed on the old woman ............