But in the same hour the mightiest man in Metropolis had lain on the floor, screaming like a wild beast, the bones of which are being broken in its living body.
And, on his meeting Rotwang, four weeks later, he found that the dense, disordered hair over the wonderful brow of the inventor was snow-white, and in the eyes under this brow the smouldering of a hatred which was very closely related to madness.
In this great love, in this great hatred, the poor, dead Hel had remained alive to both men....
“You must wait a little while,” said the voice which sounded as though the house were talking in its sleep.
“Listen, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen. “You know that I treat your little juggling tricks with patience, and that I come to you when I want anything of you, and that you are the only man who can say that of himself. But you will never get me to join in with you when you play the fool. You know, too, that I have no time to waste. Don’t make us both ridiculous, but come!”
“I told you that you would have to wait a little while,” explained the voice, seeming to grow more distant.
“I shall not wait. I shall go.”
“Do so, Joh Fredersen!”
He wanted to do so. But the door through which he had entered had no key, no latch. The seal of Solomon, glowing copper-red, blinked at him.
A soft, far-off voice laughed.