When he has bolted the door after the humbly bowing innkeeper, he walks with slow steps towards Johannes, who is crouching motionless in his corner, with his face buried in his hands. He places his hand gently upon his shoulder and says in a voice in which infinite love and infinite pain tremble: "Rise up, my boy; let us talk to one another."
Johannes does not stir.
"Will you not tell me what grievance you have against me? It will do you good to speak out, my boy! Relieve your feelings, my boy!"
Johannes drops his hands and laughs hoarsely: "Relieve my feelings! Ha-ha-ha!" That secret terror that distorted his features before as with a cramp has now changed to dull, obstinate stubbornness.
Wavering between horror and pity, Martin looks upon this countenance in which deep furrows have left nothing, not a trace of his former open-faced, good-natured Johannes. Every evil passion must have worked therein to disfigure it so wretchedly within six short weeks. Now he raises himself up and casts a searching look towards the door. "It seems you have locked me in," he says with a fresh outburst of laughter that cuts Martin to the quick.
"Yes."
"I suppose you intend dragging me with you like a criminal?"
"Johannes!"
"Go on. I know you are the stronger! But one thing let me tell you: I am not yet so wretched but that I should resist. I would rather fling myself from the carriage and dash my head against a curbstone than come back with you."
"Have pity, merciful God!" cries Martin. "My boy, my boy, what have they made of you?"