opened her eyes wide. "Fool, idiot!" she could have shouted to him
in her fury. But then she hid her face in her hands and staggered to a
corner, where she broke down and groaned. She was the fool, the idiot,
for she had cut him down herself. Why? She did not know.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Martin carried Rosa upstairs. Mr. Tiralla was breathing again, and now
the young man had a feeling as though he would have to fight once more
for a life--but a young and innocent life this time.

He carried the unconscious girl tenderly in his arms. She had only very
little clothing on, and he felt how thin and slender her limbs were.
Her bushy mane--not smooth and silky like his love's beautiful
hair--tickled his cheek, but there was a perfume about her dry locks
and about her whole person that reminded him of the perfume of the
fields in spring-time, which he was so fond of ploughing. He carried
her as carefully as though every movement could harm her, as though she
were a soap-bubble which disappears if over-curious fingers touch it.
And still he clasped her tightly. Once he thought he could feel her
nestling [Pg 273] against him; but it must have been imagination, for
she had swooned and she hardly breathed.

On reaching the door of her room he entered almost timidly. A light was
flickering there. There was no help for it, he had to lay her down on
her bed, for the people downstairs had lost their heads, but he did it
shyly. There she lay, and as he bent over her--was he dreaming?--she
flung her arms round his neck.

She dragged his head down to her lips and he felt her hot breath as she
whispered, "Always united--many years--and many children--my Saviour,
my Redeemer--oh, my beloved one, come, kiss me."

Her whispering made him shudder. Why did she mix so strangely what was
in the Prayer-book with what lovers whisper in the dark? Would she be
saying any more? He could not help it, he had freed himself, but he
remained standing at her bedside, listening.

"Oh, I know, I know it very well," she wailed. Then she gave a
deep sigh, "Alas, alas, how beautiful you are, mother--Mary, Holy
Virgin--alas, so lovely, a thousand times more beautiful than I. If
only I were dead--dead like daddy." She was crying softly, and her
hands were locked as though in pain or prayer. "I shall go into a
convent." Then she wrung her hands and cried in a loud voice, "Have
mercy on me, have mercy on me! Mary, Holy