Prostrate, powerless, he heard the clock strike the quarter to five; his pulses beat like hammers, and each throb brought the moment nearer that was to decide his fate.

The last stroke of the hour was over.

The ante-room bell rang; the baron rose.

Itzig opened the door, holding the two papers in his hand.
"I can not pay," the baron cried, in a hoarse voice.
Itzig bowed again and offered him the other paper: "Here is the sketch of a contract." The baron took up his hat, and said, without looking at him, "Come to an attorney." It was evening when the baron returned to the castle of his forefathers.
The pale moonlight shone on the turrets, the lake was black as ink, and colorless as they was the face of the man who leaned back in the carriage, with close compressed lips, like one who, after a long struggle, had come to an irrevocable decision.

He looked apathetically on the water and on the cool moonshine on the roof, and yet he was glad that the sun did not shine, and that he did not see his father's house in its golden light.