"Where are you going?" Her voice no longer sounded firm, it was trembling.

He tried to pa.s.s her without answering--no, she should not hold him again.

But she followed him into the pa.s.sage, where she again seized hold of him. "I shall not let you go, tell me first where you're going."

"Into the village. Let me go, I tell you," He turned his head aside defiantly, so as to avoid her eyes.

"Swear that you'll come back," she whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "swear by G.o.d Almighty, by Mr. Tiralla lying dead in there."

[Pg 314]

"I will not swear." He pushed her away.

Then she threw herself on his breast, and her arms held him like chains. '"Look at me, why do you turn your dear face away? Look at me, it's I, darling, I, whom you love so. Mr. Tiralla is dead."

She no longer spoke in a whisper, she no longer took care that her words should remain inaudible to others, and her voice sounded loud in the echoing pa.s.sage. "I'm a widow now. I'm free now. Don't go! All I possess shall be yours. And it's no sin if we love each other. I beg of you, I implore you, don't go! Stop, my darling, my Martin, stop!"

She slid down and embraced his knees, sobbing; she pressed her face that was wet with tears against his clothes. "Why are you so cold; why don't you speak to me? What have I done to you?"

He stood like a tree without bending. "You've not done anything to me,"

he murmured at last, gloomily. "Not to me, but----"

"I've not done anything to him either," she cried, jumping up eagerly and pointing to the door. Then she raised her fingers as though taking an oath. "I swear that I'm innocent, quite innocent; he, he took it himself. I swear by G.o.d I've not----"

"Don't swear." He caught hold of her raised hand and pulled it down.

"You must not swear."

"Why not?" She stood erect before him with sparkling eyes and head thrown back. "Ask Marianna, ask Mikolai; he, Mr. Tiralla, took the poison himself in the stables; we found it still in his hand.

I--I"--she struck her breast and again raised her fingers to swear--"I'm innocent of it. The saints have willed it."

He looked her full in the face scrutinizingly, as though he would pierce her with his eyes. "The [Pg 315] saints have willed it," he repeated, then, as though reconciling himself to the fact. But when she attempted to seize his hand in her elation--ah, he still loved her after all, he could not leave her--he shook his head and looked away from her in fear. "Even if it were heaven on earth here, I would not stop," he whispered. "I see that man"--pointing to the door--"the whole time before my eyes. He must separate us, so help me G.o.d. Good-bye."

He held out his hand to her, although he could hardly bring himself to do it. All at once he feared her hand, it was as though something were dragging him away from it. "I prefer to go immediately. Mikolai is there, he'll arrange everything for you. I cannot--cannot stay any longer." And he rushed out of the door and into the yard.

She stood there as if turned to stone, and her eyes were fixed. What, he was going after all? Mr. Tiralla was dead and yet he was going to leave her?

"Martin!" she screamed shrilly, rushing after him. He ran like a stag and she like a hind. "Martin, Martin!" But she could not reach him.

Purgatory and h.e.l.l were flaming behind Martin Becker and Eternal Salvation was beckoning to him. So he ran as he had never done before, without coat or hat, and but thinly clad for such a raw day. He would let everything remain behind, box and belongings, everything he called his own, he did not want anything more from Starydwor, for sin was cleaving to it, sin that clave like blood.

He ran through the fields like a boy who has lost his way and is trying to get home to his mother.

She saw him ran, but she could not follow him further, she sank down at the gate. She crouched in the frozen snow with a low cry. How red everything [Pg 316] looked. Was it blood that had been spilt? She shuddered 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 a frightful dream. "You help me. Shall I be lost?

Oh, speak! Help, you help me!"

And her daughter answered, "I'll pray for you day and night. Calm yourself, mother, I'll intercede for you." She laid both her hands on the woman writhing in despair, and it was as though a soothing stream, as though a mighty saving flood, proceeded from those delicate, yet firm hands.

That was no longer Rosa, her young daughter, the delicate girl, who now stood with erect head before the sinner imploring help, and seemed to be visibly growing bigger and bigger. And that was no longer Rosa's voice. It was a more powerful voice, which dominated the howling and whistling of the wind.

That was the Bride of Christ. But not the humble, longing maiden; it was the Bride of Christ, the powerful [Pg 318] Church herself, whose voice resounds over the plains as far as the church steeple in Starawies, and further, much further, resounds powerfully throughout the whole world:

"_Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis!_"

THE END