Johannes paces the room with heavy tread and snaps open the lids of the beer-mugs as he passes.
"Cut it short," he then says, standing still. "What do you want with me that you imprison me here?"
Martin goes silently to the door and lets the bolt fly back; then he places himself close in front of his brother. His bosom heaves as if he were laboring to raise the words he is about to speak from the uttermost depths of his soul. But what good is it? They stick fast in his throat. He has never been a fluent talker--poor, shy fellow that he is, and how is he to find tongues of flame now with which to talk this madman out of his delusions? All he can stammer forth is that one question:
"What have I done to you? What have I done to you?"
He says the words twice, thrice, and over and over again. What better can he find to say? All his love, all his misery, are contained in these.
Johannes answers not a word. He has seated himself on a bench, and is running the fingers of both his hands through his unkempt hair. About his lips there lurks a smile--a terrible smile, void of comfort or hope.
At length he interrupts his helpless brother who keeps on repeating his formula as if to conjure therewith. "Let that be," he says, "you have nothing to say to me; nor can you have anything to say to me. I have done with myself, with you, with the whole world. What I have been through in these last six weeks--I tell you, since I left the mill, I have slept under no roof, for I felt sure it must fall down upon me."
"But for heaven's sake, what ...?"
"Do not ask me.... It is no good, for you won't get to know, not through me.... Let all talking alone, for it is to no purpose ... and if you were to entreat me by the memory of our parents...."
"Yes, our parents!" stammers Martin joyfully. Why did he not think of that sooner?