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 Hell 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 Starydwór, 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 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 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?