Martin Becker heard the cry for help as he sat up in bed with open eyes. Where did it come from? But he did not attempt to find out, he felt as though he were rooted to the spot. A strange horror paralyzed him. He had not even been able to sleep until midnight, he had lain awake for hours listening, and his nerves were so excited that he could hear all kinds of things. What was that stealing softly down the stairs? Had it not stopped outside his door--or had it crept further along the passage? Oh God, it was she, she, and she would not let him go!
What was it crying so, sobbing, whimpering like a terrified child, and groping along the walls? Hark, something was crunching the sand in the passage, the stairs were creaking. Was that the front door that rattled? Something was moving about the whole time.
"All good spirits!" The man made the sign of the cross as he murmured the words, and then crept further down under the feather bed. Why, it could not be half as bad as this in a battle. Much rather face a cannon's mouth than that eye--the eye he imagined was fixed on him in the dark.
"Mikolai!" he called, but his friend only muttered in his sleep. How soundly he was sleeping. It would have been so easy now to get up and go away, Mikolai would not have heard, and he could have escaped so easily--and still. Martin lost courage, he dared not do it. Rather leave in the daytime, in open defiance if it must be, by force, than go into that dark passage where there were ghosts and whisperings.
Martin did not know what it was to fear a human being, but he feared ghosts at night. And they were spirits of darkness that raged in that house, he felt sure. So he remained in bed with anger in his heart at his own cowardice, and still not able to conquer it. He would go next day in broad daylight, even if he had to leave his box behind with everything it contained, his dear keepsakes and precious belongings. He would leave Starydwór next day. He stuck his fingers into his ears; the whole house, the night, all the air seemed to be filled with meanings. God be praised--at last! Then he fell asleep, and heard nothing more.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mr. Tiralla had moved along by the walls of his room. He ran like a restless animal in a cage; not quickly--he could not do that--but to and fro as though in despair. "Rosa, Röschen," he called in a loud voice. It seemed to him that she had been with him, but he did not know for certain. And that was what he was pondering over now. How awful it was not to be able to recollect anything! She had been such a dear little girl--she had once been his little daughter--but she was that no longer, for she, his consolation, had thrust him away from her. Alas, alas! It was very sad.
He puckered up his face and began to cry. Now he had nothing to console him, everything was gone. "Everything dr--dru--nk up," he stammered, sobbing. All at once he understood things clearly; no, he had nothing more in this world.
Where was Starydwór? It had not belonged to him for a long time, he neither went sowing nor reaping, it was not his any longer.
He had no wife, no children, no friend, and no God. The Almighty would not have anything more to do with him. He had forgotten all, all his prayers; he had ceased to go to confession; he belonged to hell.