University of Virginia Library

32. XXXII.

Shouts received the fugitive — shouts of laughter,
of scorn, of encouragement and cheer, rang
in his senses. The members of the college were
all assembled, as if they had been waiting for,
and apprized of his coming. He looked round
the apartment, and noted their several faces. His
emotions were not such as they were when he had
previously met his colleagues. He had now no
fears. His limbs were firm — his muscles rigid
and inflexible — his nerves unshaken. Yet the
pomp of death around him was even more gloomily
grand than ever. The tapestry, that seemed
made up of gathering shadows, of mighty spectres,
and the awfulest forms, appeared to contract
momently around him. Huge torches, borne in
the hands of mute images, waved with a flaring
and smoky light, in dense niches of the apartment.
Faint tones of music, followed by an occasional

shriek of laughter, and sometimes by one of pain,
came to his senses; and more than once, as if
nearer at hand, the plainings of a child seemed to
assail him, as if from his own murdered innocent.
This fancy at once drove him forward to his purpose.

“I am ready,” he exclaimed to the confederates.

“Not so,” said Busacher; “you are to choose
your successor. The candidates await you.”

“Must I do this?” demanded Rodolph, shrinking
from the task of entailing his own dreadful
doom upon another.

“You must!” was the reply; and Busacher
led the victim to the chamber in which his preparations
were to be made. Many were the candidates
who were there, claiming the privileges of
eternal sorrow, in connexion with a momentary
indulgence. With eyes closed, Rodolph extended
his hands, determined to leave to fate that choice
which he was bent not to make himself. The person
he touched came forward, and Rodolph, when
he looked upon him, beheld a fair youth, even
younger than himself, in the man he had selected.
He would have amended his choice. He would have
taken one of the degraded and besotted candidates
whom a long familiarity with vice in all its forms had

made callous to all conditions, and utterly hopeless
of the future. But he was not allowed to do so,
nor would the infatuated youth, so chosen, himself
permit of any change. Bitterly, but too late, did
Rodolph deplore his error; but regrets were idle
at such a moment. He robed himself in the unhallowed
investiture of self-murder. He clutched
the bloody knife in his desperate hand. He led
his youthful successor into the hall of death. He
stood with him before its altar. A dreadful struggle
was going on within his bosom; for the good
angel of a guardian conscience had not yet entirely
given up its trust. But, when he beheld the
doubting and the sneering glances of those around
him, and when he thought of the wife and child
whom he had lost, he hesitated no longer. Fearlessly
he leaped upon the bloody board, and the
knife was uplifted. As he gave the fatal blow, a
shriek, a scream — the voice of a woman in a
deep agony — reached his ears, with the rushing
of feet from an adjoining chamber. He knew the
tones of that voice. They were those of Bertha.
Half conscious only, he strove to raise himself
from the bloody bier, and his eyes were turned in
the direction whence the sounds proceeded. The
tapestry was thrown aside, and his wife — her child
in her arms — her hair flying in the wind — her
movements those of a love bordering upon madness
— rushed toward him where he lay. He
strove, in the agony of death — for the last sickness
was fast overcoming the life-tide at his heart
— to extend his arms to receive her; but, at that
moment, the form of Hans Busacher passed between
them.

“Keep me not back,” cried the wretched woman,
“he is mine — he is my husband.”

“He is mine!” cried Busacher, in a voice like
the falling of a torrent — so deep, so startling —
so sudden at the first. The dim eye of Rodolph
gazed up at the intruder, and the form of Busacher
seemed changed to that of Conrade Weickhoff.
There was the same scornful smile upon
his lips, and the ears of the dying man were conscious
of the same horrible, chuckling laugh,
which had characterized his friend. While he yet
looked in amaze, the figure seemed to grow and
to expand, and he was now aware that the dreadful
personage before him was about to assume another
aspect. While he watched with the last lingering
consciousness of life, and while the breath flickered
faintly, and was drawn unresistingly toward
the fearful presence which he watched, he beheld
the features change from those of Conrade, into a

yet more dreadful character. Then did he feel,
for the first time, how completely he was the victim;
since, in place of him who had been his
friend, he saw, in the moment of his final agony,
the triumphant and stony glare which marks the
glance of the demon Mephistopheles, whose slave
he had become.