"So soon as it is necessary," she answered.
"When will it be necessary?" he eagerly questioned her again. "Ulrich is away. From Königsberg he will be going to Berlin. He can't be back before March. So till then you will have to be patient."
"I can urge him to come home," she replied in a low tone, with a tearful smile.
"That you shall not do," he cried, seizing hold of her roughly.
The room spun round. Again he saw nothing but the blood-red vapour of his fury, and through it a pair of widely opened eyes staring up at him in agonised terror. He felt a lean throat yielding to the pressure of his fingers. At that moment his sister was nothing more to him than an insect, a moth shying at the light, that could be crushed to powder in his grasp.
"You will hold your tongue," he hissed, "or I'll throttle you."
He tried to pull her up, but with a sharp hollow bang her head struck against the corner of the sofa. An expression of acute pain passed over her face, and she sank in a kneeling attitude on to the floor. Then he half regained his senses. He let go of her throat, and propped her head against the cushion. And then he tore about the room, his eyes searching in desperation every corner, as if there must be some solution concealed there as to how he was to save himself and Ulrich. The crucifix floated weirdly white in the gathering shadows. He saw the good shepherd smile, and the dusty grasses seemed to tremble.
"How can I save myself, how can I save myself?" he cried inwardly. And he felt as if the hatchet which the shadow of evil had held over his head for so many months was about to fall. But at the sight of his sister lying motionless on the ground, with her head resting against the sofa, he began to feel ashamed.
"Get up, Johanna," he begged. "It is true that I would like to kill you, but I don't want to ill-treat you."
He held out a hand to help her rise. She rejected his offer, and with difficulty seated herself again in her former position.