The day was streaming down, red, upon the street....
Howls in the air. And the gleam of flame. And smoke....
Voices ... shouts—and no exultant shouting ... shouts of fear, of horror, of terribly strained tension....
At last the cathedral square....
The bonfire. The mob ... men, women, immeasurable masses ... but they were not gazing at the bonfire, on the smoking fieriness of which smouldered a creature of metal and glass, with the head and body of a woman.
All eyes were turned upwards, towards the heights of the cathedral, the roof of which sparkled in the morning sunshine.
Joh Fredersen stopped, as though a blow had been struck at his knees.
“What ...” he stammered. He raised his eyes, he raised his hands quite slowly to the level of his head ... his hands rested upon his hair.
Soundlessly, as though mown down, he fell upon his knees.
Upon the heights of the cathedral roof, entwined about each other, clawed to each other, wrestled Freder and Rotwang, gleaming in the sunlight.