"Half-dazed, I lean against the side of the pit. At my feet gleams a narrow strip of earth, on which I am standing; beyond that it goes down into black, unfathomable depths.
"I see him near me, climbing down after me slowly and carefully on the steps of a flight of stairs as it seems.
"'Where are you?' he shouts, and at the same I feel his hand groping for me.
"Then I throw myself towards him, and cling to his neck. At the same moment I feel myself lifted high up and resting upon his breast. It appeared to me as if my veins had been opened, as if in delightful lassitude I felt my warm life's blood flowing away over me.
"His breath wafted hotly into my face. For a moment it seemed to me as if he had softly kissed my forehead.... Then we returned to the manor house without speaking. I moved away from his side as far as I could, but in my heart was the jubilant thought, 'He has held me in his arms.'
"On the threshold of the sick room the old physician came towards us, gave us both his hands and said, 'She is keeping up better, children, than I had expected.'
"Within my heart was rejoicing, 'He has held me in his arms.'
* * * * *
"And now that night! Even now every minute stands up like a fury before me, and glares at me with fiery eyes! That night will I conjure up as one calls up spirits from the grave, that their witness may animate anew long forgotten bloodguiltiness! What crime did I commit? None. My hands are clean. And on that great morning, when our works shall be tried in the balance, I might fearlessly step up to the Throne of the Most High and say, 'Clothe me in the whitest raiment, fasten upon my shoulders the most delicate pair of swan's wings, and let me sit in the front row, for I have a good voice, which only requires a certain amount of practice to do honour to Paradise!' But there are crimes, unaccomplished, unuttered, which penetrate the soul like the breath of infection, and poison it in its very essence, till the body too perishes under its influence.
"It was a night almost like the present one. The moist autumn wind swept past the house in short gusts, and caught itself in the half leafless crests of the poplars, which bowed towards each other and entwined amid creaking and rustling. Not a star was in the sky; but an undefinable gleaming brought into notice dark masses of torn clouds, which sped along as if in rags. The nightlight would not burn; its flickering flame struggled with the shadows which danced incessantly over the bed and the walls. The ivy wreath hung opposite me, looking black and jagged like a crown of thorns.