"
The poor old servant tried to draw his distorted features into a smile.
"I am--not sorry for--myself--Herr Count; only for you two. I have
earned--a rest; I have--lost everything--and have long ago--ceased to
hope for--anything. I feel that--this is--the end. No doctor can--help
me. I know--I am--dying." He paused to breathe heavily for several
moments, then added: "There is--something--I should--like to
have--before--before I--go."
"What is it, Henry?"
"I know you--will be--angry--Herr Count, but--I cannot--cannot die
without--consolation."
"Consolation?" echoed Ludwig.
"Yes--the last consolation--for the--dying. I have not--confessed
for--sixteen years; and the--multitude of my--sins--oppresses me.
Pray--pray, Herr Count, send for--a priest."
"Impossible, Henry. Impossible!"
"I beseech you--in the name of God--let me see a priest. Have mercy--on
your poor old servant, Herr Count. My soul feels--the torments of hell;
I see the everlasting flames--and the sneering devils--"
"Henry, Henry," impatiently remonstrated his master, "don't be childish.
You are only tormenting yourself with fancies.
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