At last he came out with it, and there were tears on his cheek and in his eyes-- "He is dead!" "Impossible!" cried Rudolf; and he hastened to the Squire's bedroom.
There lay the Nabob with closed eyes, his hands folded across his breast, in front of him his wife's portrait that he might gaze upon it to the last.

That countenance looked so venerable after death, it seemed to have been purified from all disturbing passions, only the old ancestral dignity was visible in every feature.
He had died so quietly that even the faithful old servant, who slept in the same room with him, had not been aware of it: only when, struck by the extraordinary stillness, he had gone to see if his master wanted anything, did he perceive that he was dead.
Rudolf at once sent for the doctor, although one glance at the quiet face assured him that there was no need of doctors here.
By the time everything was ready for the funeral--for indeed everything necessary therefor was already at hand in the bedroom, the coffin, the pall, the escutcheons, the torches--he had no longer had that fear of a coffin which he had felt on his birthday.

Everything was done as he had planned it.
They attired him in his wedding garments, and so placed him in the coffin.

They sent for the very same youths who had sung the dirges over his wife so sweetly, and they sang the selfsame hymns for the dead over his coffin likewise.
The news of his death had spread all over the county, and the courtyard of Karpatfalva was thronged once more with the bizarre mob which had filled it before on that day of rejoicing, except that sad faces came now instead of merry ones.

Not one of his old acquaintances remained away; every one hastened to see him once more, and every one said that they could not recognize him, so greatly had death changed him.
A tremendous crowd followed the coffin to the grave.