Here, close by, must be Fruedammen, the Lady Pool, where a noble dame had once disappeared in her bridal chariot with all eight horses. Surely it would make things easier to get down deep into that?
Aha! Good old inventor—never at a loss!
He hung his stick over his arm and folded his hands.
“Forgive me, Heavenly Father, for this once—for just this once.”
Some critical self within himself marked the words as lisping and ridiculous.
He ran at a stumbling trot along the ground over the serpentine contortions of the great beech roots. It could not be more than a minute’s walk to the pool. But there was no time to be lost.
Curious, by the way, that a man should for close on fifty years have clung to life tooth and nail, and now, to-day, on Christmas Eve, be hurrying to get rid of it.
What would they say to it all at home?
Would Hedvig stand up straight and stiff and say, “A good thing, too”?
And Emanuel, the child of victory, what would be his future? Ah, well, there was little victory to be expected there, after all. No, that turbine was the true victory child.