this sin shall not be imputed to you either in this world or in the next. I will now go with a dissembling visage to this viper; take care that you, when I embrace her, and pretend to console her grief, draw forth the box of bones from under the bed unperceived, this will be more than proof to me. With a slightly clouded forehead, and a somewhat sorrowful look, but still like a determined man, he entered his wife’s apartment, who received her lord with innocent eyes, but with a silent, mournful soul. Her face was like an angel’s, and this extinguished the rage and fury with which his heart burned. The spirit of revenge softened into compassion and pity, he pressed the unfortunate lady tenderly to his bosom, and she poured tears of heartfelt anguish over his garments. He comforted her, talked kindly to her, and hastened soon to leave the theatre of cruelty and horror. The nurse had in the mean time prepared what she had been ordered; and delivered to the Count, in secret, the horrible receptacle of bones. It cost him a severe struggle in his heart before he could resolve what he should do with the supposed enchantress. At last he was of opinion that he would get rid of her without creating noise and wonder. He set off, and rode to Augsburg, and gave the steward these orders:—“When the Countess goes out of her chamber, after nine days, to bathe as usual, have the bath-room well heated, and bolt firmly the doors, that she may faint in the bath from the great heat, and may at last expire.” The steward received this command with heartfelt sorrow, for all the servants loved the Countess Matilda, as a gentle and amiable mistress; still he did not dare open his mouth against his lord, because he perceived his great earnestness and impatience.
On the ninth day Matilda ordered the bath to be heated; she thought her husband would not remain long in Augsburg, and she wished that, on his return, all traces of their misfortune should be wiped away. When she entered the bath-room the air around her was greatly heated. She wished to draw back, but a strong hand pushed her violently into the chamber, and immediately all the doors were bolted and locked. She cried in vain for help; nobody listened; the fire was only stirred up hotter, so that the stove glowed red-hot, like a potter’s oven. At this circumstance, the Countess easily guessed what was to happen; she resigned herself to her fate; only the shameful suspicion for which she was being punished tormented her soul more than this ignominious death. She employed the last moments of recollection in taking a silver needle out of her hair, and writing these words on the white wall of the room: “Farewell, Conrad; I die willingly at thy command; but I die innocent.” Then she threw herself on a little couch, to begin her death-struggle, but nature involuntarily strove, for a little moment of time, to prevent her destruction. In the anguish of the stifling heat, the unhappy
