Streets and stairs and streets and at last the cathedral square. Black in the background, the cathedral, ungodded, unlighted, the place before the broad steps swarming with human beings—and amid them, surrounded by gasps of madly despairing laughter, the howling of songs of fury, the smouldering of torches and brands, high up on the pyre....
“Maria—!”
Freder fell on his knees as though his sinews were sawn through.
“Maria—!”
The girl whom he took to be Maria raised her head. She sought him. Her glance found him. She smiled—laughed.
“Dance with me, my dearest—!” flew her voice, sharp as a flashing knife, through uproar.
Freder got up. The mob recognised him. The mob lurched towards him, shrieking and yelling.
“Jooooo—oh! Joh Fredersen’s son—! Joh Fredersen’s son—”
They made to seize him. He dodged them wildly. He threw himself with his back against the parapet of the street.
“Why do you want to kill her, you devils—? She has saved your children!”