I woke suddenly, with a horrible start. The candle had burnt down and gone out, leaving a smoky smell and a little lake of hot wax on the polished leather of the desk top; it must have been the sudden extinguishing of the light that had woken me.

But what a lot of time had gone by! It wasn’t dark—quite—because the curtains didn’t meet and a crack of moonlight shone through. As I sat bolt upright in the chair, with a beating heart, I heard the castle clock give that sort of ticking whirr that told that it was about to strike. I held my breath. It struck one. How frustrating! Did that mean one o’clock, or half-past something else? I found myself growing rapidly very much more afraid than I’d been earlier.

But I didn’t have time to think about that. Voices, from below…

I stood up hastily. All my brave thoughts of vengeance, of confronting him with his own wickedness, had all crept away while I’d been asleep and unable to keep hold of them. Now I was terrified. Where could I hide? That chest beside the steps to the roof—was there any space behind it? There was. I scrambled over the dark oak and lay down flat on the floor—as the door opened and in came the count.

I listened. He wasn’t alone; he was talking to someone, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying at first. Then he shut the door, and I heard them more clearly.

“Oh, the poet Byron himself couldn’t have expressed it better, your grace,” said an oily voice—Snivelwurst, of course. “I’ve always held the opinion that if your grace had turned your talents to the drama, say—” (sneeze)—“or to verse, you would have become the foremost poet of the age. It is a great pleasure to me to hear you talk, your grace; believe me, it is.”

I couldn’t see either of them, of course, but I could hear where their voices were coming from. Count Karlstein’s came directly toward me as he said, “You’re a fool, Snivelwurst.” Then something soft dropped over the chest, covering the gap behind it where I crouched and making it dark. It was his cloak. I heard him sniff.

“Something burning? Can you smell that?” he said.

“Alas! I can smell nothing, your grace.” (Sneeze.) “But bless my soul! Look here, upon your desk! Someone has been up here with a candle!”

I thought that was the end, that they’d search the room, find me, and fling me in the dungeons, or else shoot me outright. But Count Karlstein merely laughed.