d been punished enough. Why should he die?

She did not notice his hesitation. "You must drink with him," she
whispered hastily; "drink every day with him at our house, so that he
drinks more, much more than he does now. He doesn't drink enough at
present. You must be with him, you must fill his glass without his
noticing it, you must entertain him the whole time, tell him what he
likes to hear, put him in a good humour by saying, 'Your health!' and
'Much good may it do you!' so that he goes on drinking and drinking.
You must help me in this way." She looked at him imploringly.

He avoided her eyes; no, he could not do that, he did not like to. Mr.
Tiralla was rather fond of him, but how much did she care for him, eh?
Not _so_ much. He snapped his fingers in her face. She preferred [Pg
258] another man, Becker; oh, he knew it very well, and that was the
reason things were not going quickly enough for her. No, he would not
give her a helping hand to that, never, never, he panted, excited to
fury by his passionate jealousy, and let his hand fall with a bang on
the table, "Never!"

She trembled and seized hold of his clenched hand; she must win him, he
must help her, he had no right to refuse her his help, what should she
do then? Thoughts flew like lightning through her brain; the first of
December, the first of December, oh, Martin would run away from her
much earlier than that, he was even now like a young bird trying its
wings, and she would soon not be able to hold him any longer. Martin,
Boehnke--Boehnke, Martin, all ran together. She could not think clearly,
she was beside herself with terror. She threw her arms round the
schoolmaster's neck and, putting her lips close to his ear, sobbed,
"You must, you must, I implore you!"

Her face, which in spite of hot tears and cold dew was still so
alluring, so dazzling, was quite close to his. Then he caught hold of
her with all his strength. "You've made me a drunkard," he jerked out,
from between his clenched teeth, and strained her to his heart, so that
she lost her breath, "and you're making me a murderer--but by God, I
love you, I love you!"

[Pg 259]

CHAPTER XII

Winter had come during the night.

Even yesterday the gossamer had flown across the fields and hung fast
to the bare bushes and tops of the few remaining turnips; to-day the
first snow lay on the ground. There was not much of it, but still it
was wet and cold.