She tossed about in her bed and could not sleep, owing to an indefinable terror. A criminal had found his way into the house, he was sleeping under the same roof; and this criminal was—he was her——No, no, it was not true! It could not be true!
“O God, help me! Help me!” she sobbed out in passionate ecstasy. “Help me! Give me a sign that it is not true!” But she suddenly noticed that it seemed as if God were gone. It was the first time this had happened since her conversion. What was it! Why did she not go on praying, instead of lying, her eyes gazing terror-stricken into the darkness. Was there no God? Had it all been a delusion? She had prayed that this affair might turn out well for her father. She had thanked God for his innocence, and felt a comfort in thanking Him. She had also prayed for Wangen; she had won this victory over herself and had felt a pleasure in it. And was it all a delusion? Had God made fun of her? Or did He not exist? Was that a delusion too? Was this comfort to her soul in being in fellowship with Him, this pleasure in doing good, also delusion, delusion, delusion?
She tossed about in her bed, weeping convulsively. If her father were guilty, then there was no God. It was all a delusion, a delusion!
“O God, give me a sign that Thou art! Give me peace! Is my father a bad man, who will give false evidence to-morrow? My father? O God, give me a sign! Help me if there be a God! For Christ’s sake, give me a sign!”
At last she knelt in her bed, stretching out her clasped hands.
Towards morning Einar was greatly astonished to see Ingeborg come creeping into his room. She took his face between her hands, and said in a voice that trembled with joy:
“I must tell you at once. You’ve made a mistake, and thank God for it!” She involuntarily laid her hand upon her breast.
He lighted the candle and looked questioningly at her. Her eyes were positively shining with joy.
“Yes, Einar, God has given me a sign. You’ve made a mistake, and I was sure you had. And now you must go and ask father’s pardon.” She stroked his forehead with her hand, and disappeared noiselessly.
“Poor Ingeborg!” thought Einar. This young girl, whose hair sorrow had turned grey—this nun, who lived always with her thoughts on the other side of the grave—would it not crush her, too, if to-morrow he——?