“Come to yourself, Maria, beloved!” he said, entreating her with his caresses, with his love. “Come to me, beloved! Come to me!”
The soft response of her heart-beat, of her breathing, caused a laugh to well up from his throat and the fervour of his whispered words died on her lips.
Joh Fredersen caught the sound of his son’s laugh. He was already near the door of the cathedral. He stopped and looked at the stack of pillars, in the delicate, canopied niches of which stood the saintly men and women, smiling gently.
“You have suffered,” thought his dream-filled brain. “You have been redeemed by suffering. You have attained to bliss.... Is it worth while to suffer?—Yes.”
And he walked out of the cathedral on feet which were still as though dead, tentatively, he stepped through the mighty doorway, stood dazzled in the light and swayed as though drunken.
For the wine of suffering which he had drunk, was very heavy, and intoxicating, and white-hot.
His soul spoke within him as he reeled along:
“I will go home and look for my mother.”
CHAPTER XXIV
“Freder...?” said the soft Madonna-voice.