The door opened—Anna entered. She glided toward him with a heavenly smile; he clasped her in his arms, and, kissing her head which she had laid on his breast, whispered: “God bless you for having come to me! I knew that I should not look for you in vain!”
The jailer stood at the open door and wept. His sobs reminded Palm of his presence.
“Balthasar,” he said, imploringly, and pointing his hand at Anna who was still reposing on his breast, “Balthasar, I am sure you will leave me alone with her, my friend?”
“I have received stringent orders never to leave prisoners under sentence of death alone with others,” murmured Balthasar. “They might easily furnish arms or poison to them; that is what my superiors told me.”
Palm placed his hand on his wife’s head as if going to take a solemn oath. “Balthasar,” he said, “by this sacred and beloved head I swear to you that I shall not commit suicide. Let my murderers take my life. Will you now leave me alone with her?”
“I will, for it would be cruel not to do so,” said Balthasar. “God alone ought to hear what you have to say to each other! I give you half an hour; then the officers and the priest will come, and it will no longer be in my power to keep this door locked. But until then nobody shall disturb you.”
He left the cell and locked the door.
Man and wife were alone now; they had half an hour for their last interview, their last farewell.
There are sacred moments which, like the wings of the butterfly, are injured by the slightest touch of the human hand, and which, therefore, must not be approached; there are words which no human ear ought to listen to, and tears which God alone ought to count.
Half an hour later the jailer opened the door and reentered. Palm and his wife stood in the middle of the cell, and, encircling each other with one arm, looked calmly, serenely, and smilingly at each other like two spirits removed from earth.