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 Church herself, whose voice resounds over the plains as far as the church steeple in Starawieś, and further, much further, resounds powerfully throughout the whole world:
"Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis!"