“Elsbeth, awake’”
It will flame up as it did then, eight years ago, when the blood red reflection paralyzed all his faculties, as he roamed in the garden of Helenenthal. If to day, as at that time, a fire were to rise on the heath, or that his father’s hand might be stiffened in the midst of his criminal purpose.
Oh, God in Heaven, let a miracle happen! Let a fire break out on the heath, as it happened before—as happened before.
There must be a fire! And there must be a fire here! If lightning would but strike the roof of his own home, so that the flames might cry out to his father, “Stop, stop!” Ah, why is it such a clear, starlight night? Why is there no threatening cloud upon the horizon? Perhaps he is even now stretching up to the thatched roof. Perhaps he is now striking the match. In another moment all warning will be too late.
There must be a fire! There must be a fire here!
And there is no torch that I could swing to warn him!
“There must be a fire! There must be a fire here!”
And as he looked around with eyes starting from his head, there suddenly flashed upon him an idea as bright as the fire he was longing for.
He shouted with joy.
“Yes, that’s the thing. The terror will benumb him. It must be saved. Saved at any price.”