“Hel,” said Rotwang, his heart streaming over; he stretched out his hands. “Come to me, my Hel.... How long, how long I had to live without you!”
But she did not come. She started back from him. Her face full of horror, she started back from him.
“Hel,” begged the man, “why are you afraid of me? I am no ghost, although I am dead. I had to die, to come to you. I have always, always longed for you. You have no right to leave me alone now! I want your hands! Give them to me!”
But his groping fingers snatched into space. Footsteps were hurrying up the steps of the stone-staircase which led to the belfry.
Something like anger came over Rotwang’s heart. Deep in his dulled and tortured soul reposed the memory of a day upon which Hel had likewise fled from him—to another.... No, don’t think, don’t think of it.... That was a part of his first existence, and it would be quite senseless to go through the same again—in the other, and, as humanity in general hoped, better world.
Why was Hel fleeing from him? He groped along after her. Climbed up stairs upon stairs. The hastening, frightened footsteps remained constantly before him. And the higher the woman before him fled, the more wildly did his heart beat in this mighty ascent, the redder did Rotwang’s eyes become filled with blood, the more furiously did his anger boil up within him. She should not run away from him—she should not! If only he could catch her by the hand he would never, never let her go again! He would forge a ring about her wrist with his metal hand—and then she should never try to escape him again ... to another!
They had both reached the belfry. They raced along under the bells. He blocked the way to the stairs. He laughed, sadly and evilly.
“Hel, my Hel, you can no longer escape me!”
She made a swift, despairing leap, and hung on the rope of the bell which was called Saint Michael. Saint Michael raised his ore-voice, but it sounded as though broken, complaining wildly. Rotwang’s laughter mingled with the sound of the bell. His metal arm, the marvellous achievement of a genius, stretched, like the phantom arm of a skeleton, far out on the sleeve of his coat, and snatched at the bell-rope.
“Hel, my Hel, you can no longer escape me!”