“Maria....”
Freder laid his forehead in his hands. He bent double, as in the throes of an agony, which otherwise God does not permit to visit mankind.
“You know the girl?” asked Jan, bending forward.
“No!”
“But you love her,” said Jan, and behind these words lurked hatred, crouched to spring.
Freder took his hand and said: “Come!”
“But,” continued Freder, fixing his eyes upon Josaphat, who was sitting there quite sunken together, while the rain was growing gentler, like hushed weeping, “Slim was suddenly standing there, beside me, and he said: ‘Will you not return home, Mr. Freder?’”
Josaphat was silent for a long time: Freder, too, was silent. In the frame of the open door, which led out to the balcony, stood, hovering, the picture of the monster clock, on the New Tower of Babel, bathed in a white light. The large hand jerked to twelve.
Then a sound arose throughout Metropolis.