He had been busy with a fresh
embodiment of his favourite subject, into which he had sketched the form
of the student as the sufferer. He had represented poor Wolkenlicht as
just beginning to recover from a trance, while a group of surgeons,
unaware of the signs of returning life, were absorbed in a minute
dissection of one of the limbs. At an open door he had painted Lilith
passing, with her face buried in a bunch of sweet peas. But when he came
to the picture, he found, to his astonishment and terror, that the face of
one of the group was now turned towards that of the victim, regarding his
revival with demoniac satisfaction, and taking pains to prevent the others
from discovering it. The face of this prince of torturers was that of
Teufelsbuerst himself. Lilith had altogether vanished, and in her place
stood the dim vampire reiteration of the body that lay extended on the
table, staring greedily at the assembled company. With trembling hands the
painter removed the picture from the easel, and turned its face to the
wall.
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