So another year went by. Then the Count fell ill, and the Countess
supposed that Renelde, weary of waiting, had begun her spinning anew;
but when she came to the cottage to see, she found the wheel silent.
However, the Count grew worse and worse till he was given up by the
doctors. The passing bell was rung, and he lay expecting Death to come
for him. But Death was not so near as the doctors thought, and still he
lingered.
He seemed in a desperate condition, but he got neither better nor
worse. He could neither live nor die; he suffered horribly, and called
loudly on Death to put an end to his pains.
In this extremity he remembered what he had told the little spinner
long ago. If Death was so slow in coming, it was because he was not
ready to follow him, having no shroud for his burial.
He sent to fetch Renelde, placed her by his bedside, and ordered her at
once to go on spinning his shroud.
Hardly had the spinner begun to work when the Count began to feel his
pains grow less.
Then at last his heart melted; he was sorry for all the evil he had
done out of pride, and implored Renelde to forgive him. So Renelde
forgave him, and went on spinning night and day.
When the thread of the nettles was spun she wove it with her shuttle,
and then cut the shroud and began to sew it.
And as before, when she sewed the Count felt his pains grow less, and
the life sinking within him, and when the needle made the last stitch
he gave his last sigh.