for him; then
laughing, weeping, full of anguish and full of happiness in his arms.
His brother's fall had made this woman free. He had known that when he
let his brother fall. If he should wed his brother's wife, who had
become free through the fall, he would make himself guilty of this
fall. If he received the reward of the deed, the deed was also his. If
he took her, the feeling would never leave him; he would be unhappy
and would make her unhappy with him. For her sake and for his he must
refrain. When he came to this decision, he realized how unsubstantial
his conclusions were, viewed with the clear eye of the spirit; and
yet, if he tried to reach out for happiness, the dark feeling of guilt
hovered over him like an icy frost about a flower, and his soul could
do nothing against its annihilating power. And the bells of St.
George's continued to ring their warning. What made Apollonius'
agitation even more feverish was the knowledge that the flaw in his
work had not been corrected. It rained incessantly, the gap yawned
wide, the boarding greedily drank in the water, the wood was bound to
rot. If the winter cold increased, the water would freeze in the wood
and injure the slate. The town, which trusted to his sense of duty,
would suffer harm through him. Each night the stroke of two awakened
him from sleep. Shadows mingled with his fever-dreams. The reproaches
of his inward and outward yearning for purity blended. The open wound
cried aloud for justice, the open grave for him who would close it.
And it was he whom the bells called to justice, he who must close the
grave before the disaster he had forged should descend upon an
innocent head. He must climb to the tower and correct the flaw. But
when he got there, it struck two, dizziness seized hold of him and
dragged him down after his brother. From day to day, from hour to
hour, the beautiful young widow saw him grow paler and became pale
with him. Only the old gentleman in his blindness did not see the
cloud which was lowering so threateningly. The air was very sultry in
the house with the green shutters. No one who looks at the little
house now would suspect how sultry it once was there.

It was on the night before the appointed betrothal day. Snow had
fallen, and then great cold had suddenly set in. For several nights
the so-called St. Elmo's fire had been seen darting tongues of flame
from the tops of the towers to the gleaming stars of heaven. In spite
of the