But when the guests toward morning had sunk one here and another there under the table, our Herr Johann Fabula was snoring comfortably in his arm-chair, and only Timar had kept his head. Mad people are like King Mithridates and the poison—wine does not affect them. So he had to get his carriage himself and start on his journey. In his head reality and dreams, imagination, memory, and hallucination were in a whirl. It seemed to him as if he had stood by the couch of a sleeping saint with a marble face, and as if he had kissed the lips of the white statue, and it had not awoke under his kiss. Perhaps it was only a vision. Then he thought he remembered that behind the door of a dark recess, as he passed, a lovely Mænad's head looked out, framed in rich tresses. She had sparkling eyes and red lips, between which shone two rows of pearls, as she held the candle and asked the sleep-walker, "Where are you going, sir?"
And he had whispered in the witch's ear, "I am going to make Timéa happy."
Then the ideal face had turned to a Medusa head, and the curls to snakes. Perhaps this was hallucination too.
Timar awoke toward noon in his carriage, when the post-horses were changed. He was already far from Komorn, and his intention was unchanged. Late at night he arrived on the Danube shore, where the little boat he had ordered awaited him; he went over in the night to the island.
A thought came into his head. "How if Noémi were dead already?" Why should not this be possible? What a burden it would free him from—that of persuading her to the dreadful step. He who has one fixed idea expects of fate that everything should happen as he has planned.
Near the white rose-bush no doubt a second already stands, which will bloom red in spring—on Noémi's grave. Soon there will be a third with yellow blossoms, the flower of the man of gold.
Occupied with these thoughts, he landed on the island shore. It was still night and the moon shone. The unfinished house stood like a tomb on the grass-grown field; the windows and door-ways were hung with matting to keep out snow and rain. Michael hastened to the old dwelling. Almira met him and licked his hand; she did not bark, but took a corner of his cloak in her teeth and drew him to the window. The moon shone through the lattice, and Michael looked into the little room, which was quite light.
He could clearly perceive that only one bed was in the room, the other was gone. On this bed slept Therese; it was as he had thought—Noémi was already at rest under the rose-bush. It is well.
He knocked at the window. "It is I, Therese." At this the woman came out on the veranda. "Are you sleeping alone, Therese?" said Timar.
"Yes."