“Revenge ... on whom?”
“On the girl who seduced them....”
“On the girl....”
“Yes....”
“Go on....”
“They have taken captive the girl, on whom they put the blame of all this horror.... Freder wanted to save her, for he loves the girl.... They have taken him captive and are forcing him to look on and see how his beloved dies.... They have built the bonfire before the cathedral.... They are dancing round the bonfire.... They are yelling: ‘We have captured the son of Joh Fredersen and his beloved’ ... and I know—I know: He’ll never get away from them alive...!”
For the space of some seconds there was so deep and perfect a silence that the golden glow of the morning, breaking forth, strong and radiant had the effect of a powerful roar. Then Joh Fredersen turned around, breaking into a run. He flung himself at the door. So forceful and irresistible was this movement that it seemed as if the closed door itself were not able to withstand it.
Past the knots of human beings ran Joh Fredersen—across to the staircase and down the steps. His course was as a pauseless series of leaps. He did not notice the height. With hands stretched forward he ran, in bounds, his hair rearing up like a flame above his brow. His mouth was wide open and between his parted lips there hovered—a soundless scream—the unscreamed name: “Freder!”
An infinity of stairs ... clefts ... rents in walls ... smashed stone blocks ... twisted iron ... destruction ... ruin....
The street.