huddered as she gazed around like one demented. Or was it the wintry
sun that had dyed everything red? Yes--she drew a deep breath--oh, yes,
it was only the sun. The whole sky was aglow, and it was that which
made the glistening snow look red.

She would implore the saints to help her. But she could not rise, her
ankles felt broken, so she slid on her knees to the grating in the
wall, behind which stood the image of the Holy Mother with her Child.
The withered wreath was still there, which she had made of corn and
flowers and clover, and hung up on a happy day.

"Bring him back, oh, bring him back," whispered the woman beseechingly,
and then burst out sobbing. The saints had helped her once, why should
they not do so again? Innumerable tears rolled down her cold cheeks and
turned to ice on her bosom. She prayed and wrung her hands. She begged
for the return of the one as she had formerly begged for the death of
the other. One prayer had been granted; Mr. Tiralla was dead. And she
knelt there guiltless--for who, who could say that she was to blame?

She looked around with wild eyes. At that moment she saw somebody
standing before her, between heaven and earth, accusing her.

"No!" she shrieked, stretching out her arms. How dared he accuse her?
Was it she, she, who had given Mr. Tiralla poison? And even if she had
attempted to do so before, the poison had no longer been poison in her
hands, for the mushrooms had not harmed him, and the corn had not
harmed the poultry. "No, I'm innocent, quite innocent of it." The
saints had willed it, they had put into his mind to take some of the
powder and swallow it. And they had willed [Pg 317] that he should die
of it. So his death had been decided upon in heaven.

Folding her hands once more the woman prayed in a whining, fervent
voice; would the saints not fulfil her second prayer too, and bring
back the man who had fled from her?

Her thoughts grew more and more confused. Now she saw Martin Becker,
now Mr. Tiralla, and then the angel with the flaming sword. She
cowered; alas, alas, was he going to punish her with its sharp edge?

But suddenly the sword fell from the angel's hand, and lay gleaming in
the snow. He laid his cool hand on her burning brow--oh, that was no
longer the cherubim who drives sinners out of the Garden of Eden, that
was Rosa, Rosa's hand, and that was her dress.

"Help, help!" cried the woman, clinging to her daughter as though she
were awaking out of