He looked about, and at first saw nothing, for the Count had fallen in the shadow of the table.
Then, seeing where he lay, Johann Schmidt came forward and knelt down, and with some difficulty turned his friend upon his back.
"Dead--poor Count!" he exclaimed in a low voice, bending down over the ghastly face.
The pale eyes were turned upward and inward, and the forehead was damp.
Schmidt unbuttoned the threadbare coat from the breast.

There was no waistcoat under it--nothing but a patched flannel shirt.

A quantity of papers were folded neatly in a flat package in the inner pocket.

Schmidt put down his head and listened for the beatings of the heart.
"So it is over!" he said mournfully, as he straightened himself upon his knees.

Then he took one of the extended hands in his, and pressed it, and looked into the poor man's face, and felt the tears coming into his eyes.
"You were a good man," he said in sorrowful tones, "and a brave man in your way, and a true gentleman--and--I suppose it was not your fault if you were mad.