r? And then he was filled with anger against the boy, who
stood there so bold--arrogant--yes, arrogant--who demanded where he had
to ask, and looked at them unmoved with large, cold eyes.

His voice, which had hitherto been grave but gentle whilst speaking
to Wolfgang, now became severe: "Besides, I won't allow you to question
me in this manner."

"I have a right to question you."

"Yes, you have." The man was quite taken aback. Yes, the lad had the
right. It was quite clear who was wrong. And so he said, thinking
better of it and in a more friendly voice again: "But even if you are
not our son by birth, I think the training and the care you have
received from our hands during all these years have made you our child
in spirit. Come, my son--and even if they all say you are not our son,
I tell you you are our son in truth."

"No," he said. And then he walked slowly backwards to the door, his
dry eyes fixed on those he had called parents for so long.

"Boy, where are you going? Stop!" the man called after him in a kind
voice. The boy was certainly in a terrible position, they must have
patience with him. And he called out once more "Stop, Wolfgang!"

But Wolfgang shook his head: "I cannot. You have deceived me. Let me
go." He shook off the man's hand that he had laid on his sleeve with a
violent gesture.

And then he screamed out like a wounded animal: "Why do you still
worry me? Let me go, I want to think of my mother--where is she?"

BOOK III

CHAPTER XIII

The clocks in the house ticked terribly loudly. They could be heard
through the silence of the night like warning voices.

Oh, how quickly the time flew. It had quite lately been
evening--midnight--and now the clock on the mantel-piece already struck
a short, clear, hard one.

The lonely woman pressed her hands to her temples with a shudder.
How they throbbed, and how her thoughts--torturing thoughts--hurried
along, madly, restlessly, like the hasty tick of the clocks.

Everybody in the house was asleep--the manservant, the maids, her
husband too--long ago. Only she, she alone had not found any sleep as
yet.

And everything was asleep outside as well. The pines stood around
the house motionless, and their dark outlines, as stiff as though cut
out of cardboard, stood out clearly against the silvery sky of
night.

No shouts, no footsteps, no sound of wheels, no singing, no
laughter, not even a dog's bark came from the sleeping colony i