"He's not dead yet." It was Martin who spoke, and she heard what he said without answering a word. She closed her eyes; how compassionate his voice--the beloved's voice--sounded. Did he feel sorry for her--or himself? No, he only felt sorry for Mr. Tiralla.
She 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 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 Virgin, help me, let me hold the Christ Child on my lap! Oh, don't turn away--help, have mercy on me!"
She stretched out her hands--oh, dear, was she going to catch hold of him? How her hands trembled, how red her pale face had become.