They repaired at once to the clergyman's house, where they learned that
the Countess and Albert Berlow lived in the shepherd's lowly hut, some
miles distant. "The Countess holds her husband as dead," said the
clergyman, "and no joy can now penetrate her heart. Her health has
failed and it seems as if she would not last very long."
Count Berlow asked how she could have received such incorrect news. The
clergyman then brought out a package of newspapers, searched for one
sheet, and laid it before the Count. He read that, on such a day, and at
such an hour, Count Berlow, with twenty others, had been hung. "Strange
it is," said the Count, "either they forgot to cross my name from the
list, or else they did not wish to, in the hope that in that way they
would not be answerable for my escape."
It pained the Count sorely that this false news had brought much
suffering to the Countess, for death seemed almost to have enrolled her,
too. The clergyman advised them to proceed slowly and cautiously, lest
the joyful news of the Count's return should be too great a shock to
her.
Intending to follow the good clergyman's advice, they continued their
journey. Soon they reached the summit of a wooded hill, and from the
distance they discerned the low hut with its flat, thatch-covered roof
and smoking chimney. Richard then went hurriedly ahead.
Countess Berlow, dressed in black, sat knitting at the fireside, the
light of which illuminated the room, which had been slowly filling with
the shadows of the approaching twilight.
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