Maria’s eyes sought the New Tower of Babel. She had only one way in her mind: to Joh Fredersen. She would go there. But she never went.
For suddenly the air was a blood-red stream, which poured itself forth, flickering, formed by a thousand torches. And the torches were dancing in the hands of beings who were crowding out of Yoshiwara. The faces of the beings shone with insanity, every mouth parted in a gasp, yet the eyes which blazed above them were the bursting eyes of men choking. Each was dancing the dance of Death with his own torch, whirling madly about, and the whirl of the dancers formed a train, revolving in itself.
“Maohee—!” flew the shrill cries above it. “Dance—dance—dance—Maohee—!”
But the flaming procession was led by a girl. The girl was Maria. And the girl was screaming with Maria’s voice:
“Dance—dance—dance—Maohee!”
She crossed the torches like swords above her head. She swung them right and left, brandishing them so that showers of sparks fell about the way. Sometimes it seemed as if she were riding on the torches. She raised her knees to her breast, with laughter which brought a moan from the dancers of the procession.
But one of the dancers ran along at the girl’s feet, like a dog, crying incessantly:
“I am Jan! I am Jan! I am the faithful Jan! Hear me, at last, Maria!”
But the girl struck him in the face with her sparkling torch.
His clothes caught fire. He ran for some time, a living torch, along by the girl. His voice sounded as if from the blaze: