“Hush ... hush...!”
“Listen—!”
“He is talking to Slim.”
And in the tension of listening, which smothered every sound, the heads bent towards the door.
Behind the door a voice spoke, as were the wood rattling:
“Where is my son...?”
Josaphat made for the door, staggering. The panting cry of many men tried to stop him. Hands were stretched out towards him.
“Don’t—don’t—!!”
But he had already pushed open the door. He looked about him. Through the enormous windows the first glow of the youthful day was flowing, lying on the shining floor like pools of blood. By the wall, near the door, stood Slim. And just before him stood Joh Fredersen. His fists were pressed against the wall, right and left of the man, holding him fast, as though they had been drilled through him, crucifying him.
“Where is my son—?” said Joh Fredersen. He asked—and his voice cracked as if in suffocation: