They fought, breast pressed to breast, knee to knee. One did not need very sharp eyes to see that Rotwang was by far the stronger. The slender form of the boy, in white-silken tatters, bent under the throttling grip of the great inventor, farther and farther backwards. In a fearfully wonderful arch the slender, white form was extended, head back, knees bent forward. And the blackness which was Rotwang stood out, massy, mountain-like, above the silken whiteness, forcing it downwards. In the narrow gallery of the spire Freder crumpled up like a sack and lay in the corner, stirring no more. Above him, straightened up, yet bent forward—Rotwang, staring at him, then turning....
Along the narrow roof ridge, towards him—no, towards the dullish bundle of white silk, staggered Maria. In the light of the morning, risen glorious and imperious, her voice fluttered out like the mourning of a poor bird:
“Freder—Freder—!”
Whispers broke out in the cathedral square. Heads turned and hands pointed.
“Look—Joh Fredersen! Look over there—Joh Fredersen!”
A woman’s voice yelled out:
“Now you see for yourself, don’t you, Joh Fredersen, what it’s like when someone’s only child is murdered—?”
Josaphat leaped before the man who was on his knees, hearing nothing of what was going on around him.
“What’s the matter—?” he shouted. “What’s the matter with you all—? Your children have been saved! In the ‘House of the Sons!’ Maria and Joh Fredersen’s son—they saved your children—!”
Joh Fredersen heard nothing. He did not hear the scream, which, like a bellowed prayer to God, suddenly leaped from the one mouth of the multitude.