I went down to the old chapel to look for the Count. In the vaults lay fifty great wooden boxes filled with new earth. In one of them the Count was lying, either dead or asleep, with open eyes that had no glaze of death in them. There was no breath and no beat of the heart. I searched him for the key to the castle and found none. When I looked again, on my second visit, he was changed. The white hair and moustache were iron grey; the cheeks were fuller; the mouth was redder than ever, and on the lips were fresh drops of blood. He lay like a filthy leech, gorged and asleep. This was the being I was helping to move to London, where for centuries he might feed among its millions. I took up a shovel and struck at the hateful face. The head turned, and the eyes looked at me. The shovel fell from my hands, and the lid slipped back into place.