e raised his distressed face a gigantic
countenance became visible. The great vaulted arch of heaven was a
countenance fearfully distorted by vengeance and scorn. Of escape from
it there could be no thought. Within his soul everything became wrapped
in darkness. Tones and pictures ran together, giving the disagreeably
inarticulate impression that would be made by drawing a wet rag across a
fresh, well-ordered creation.

As he walked on, it seemed to him that the horror of the vision was
diminishing. The countenance became smaller and more amiable. It was now
not much larger than the facade of a church and what wrath remained
seemed to be concentrated in the forehead. An old woman passed by,
carrying apples in her apron. He trembled at the smell of them; but he
did not reach out; he did not try to take a single one of them from her;
he still held himself in control. By this time the entire vision was not
much larger than the top of a tree, and in it were the traces of mercy.

The sun was high in the heavens, the snow was melting, birds were
chirping everywhere. As he sauntered along with uncertain steps through
Pfannenschmied Street he suddenly stopped as if rooted to the pavement.
There was the vision: he caught sight of it in bodily form on the door
jamb of the shop. He could not see that it was the mask of Zingarella.
Of course not, for it was a transfigured face, and how could he have
grasped a reality in his present state of mind? He looked from within
out. The thing before him was a vision; it joined high heaven with the
earth below; it was a promise. He could have thrown himself down on the
street and wept, for it seemed to him that he was saved.

The incomparable resignation and friendly grief in the expression of the
mask, the sanctity under the long eyelashes, the half extinguished smile
playing around the mouth of sorrow, the element of ghostliness, a being
far removed from death and equally far removed from life--all this
caused his feeling to swell into one of credulous devotion. His entire
future seemed to depend upon coming into possession of the mask. Without
a moment's hesitation or consideration he rushed into the shop.

Within he found a young man whom the caster addressed most respectfully
as Dr. Benda, and who was about thirty years old. Dr. Benda was being
shown a number of successful casts of a figure entitled "The Fountain of
Virtue." It was quite a little while before the caster turned to Danie