Fritz Nettenmair broke down completely; the scaffolding creaked beneath him. The old gentleman listened. If the miserable wretch should fall over the edge of the scaffolding, he would be plunged into the depths and all would be over. All that had to be, would be! A lark soared above them scattering its merry Tirili over trees and houses. Happier mortals heard the song from afar; workmen let their spades rest, children their whips and tops; with eyes turned heavenward all sought the soaring, singing bird and hearkened with bated breath. Herr Nettenmair did not hear the lark; he also held his breath, but he was listening to what was happening below, not above. It was nothing that sounded like the song of a lark which he wanted to hear. There was a rumbling, and a broken cry of anguish. At first he listened full of hope, then filled with despair. On the boards of the scaffolding before him he heard the rattle of heavy breathing. Fate, which might have stretched out a sympathizing, helping hand, had not done so. He must do it, for it must be done. If he did not, people would point their finger at the children and say: "It was their father who slew his brother and died on the gallows" or "in the penitentiary." And when it was long forgotten the children would only need to appear and it would be called into life again; people would point with their fingers and turn from them in horror. The confidence of the world which one inherits from one's parents is the capital with which one begins life. Confidence must be placed in man before he deserves it, in order that he may learn to deserve it. Who would place confidence in children branded with a father's guilt? The flush on his thin cheeks burned brighter, his sunken breast panted heavily. Involuntarily he pointed forward with his arm. Fritz Nettenmair divined his meaning, tried to pull himself together, and would have sunk helplessly down again if he had not supported himself with both hands. Lying thus on his hands and knees before the old gentleman he cried out in an agony of fear, "What do you want, father? What have you in mind?"
"I want to see," said the old gentleman in a shrill whisper, "whether I must do it or whether you will do what must be done. For it must be done. Nobody knows anything as yet which could lead to an investigation before the courts except me, your wife and Valentine. For myself I can answer, but not for them; they may betray what they know. If you should fall now from the scaffolding, so that people could think it was an accident, the great disgrace would be prevented. The slater who meets his death through accident stands before the world as an honest man—honest as the soldier who dies on the battle-field. You are not worthy of such a death, you bankrupt soul. The hangman should drag you on a cowhide to the gallows, you villain, who have murdered your brother and have tried to poison the future of your innocent children and my past life which has been always full of honor. You have brought down disgrace enough on your house, you shall not bring more. They shall never say of me, that my son, or of my grandchildren, that their father, died on the gallows or in the penitentiary. Say the Lord's Prayer, now, if you can still pray. Then turn as if you were going back to your work and step with your right foot over the scaffolding. If I say the shock of your brother's death made you dizzy, the courts and the town will believe me. That is the return for a life that has been different from yours. If you will not do it of your own accord, I shall go with you and you will have me too on your conscience. People know that I have trouble with my eyes; they will say that I stumbled and tried to hold on to you and dragged you down with me. My life is of no value after what I have heard today, but your children's is just beginning. And no disgrace shall be attached to them, as truly as my name is Nettenmair. Make up your mind now what is to be done. I shall count thirty—by the pendulum there."
Fritz Nettenmair had listened to his father's words with growing horror. That his deed had not yet become generally known, gave him hope. Fear of impending death aroused his energies. He took refuge again in defiance. Vehemently he declared: "I do not know what you want. I am innocent. I do not know what you mean by an ax." He expected his father to enter into his protest, even if sceptically at first. But the old gentleman began calmly to count—"one—two—"
"Father!" he cried with increasing fear, and his mocking defiance broke into a wail. "Only listen to me. The courts would listen and you will not. I will throw myself over because you want me to be dead; I will die, though I am innocent. But at least listen to me." The old gentleman gave no answer; he counted on. The miserable man saw that sentence had been pronounced. His father would not believe him no matter what he said, and he knew that what the stubborn old man undertook, he always carried out, unrelentingly. First he decided to acquiesce in his fate; then the thought came to him that he would plead again; and then it occurred to him that he could push the old man aside and make his escape; then that he could hang on to something in some way when the old man caught hold of him and not fall with him. Nobody could blame him for this. Through all these thoughts he saw shudderingly what awaited him if he escaped and the courts should seize him. It was better to die now. But on the other side of death something still more terrible awaited him. He looked back and lived his whole life through in a moment to see if the eternal Judge would find pardon for him. His thoughts became confused, he was now here, now there, and had forgotten why. He saw the mist gathering in which the workman had disappeared and at the same time he looked into the bright windows of the Red Eagle inn where he heard voices: "There he comes—now the fun will begin." He stood on the street corners and counted, and the boards beneath Apollonius would not break, nor the ropes above him; he stood before his wife and, leaning over little Annie's dying bedside, said, "Do you know why you are frightened?" and reached out his hand to give the fatal blow; also he lay as if in a fever dream before his father and brooded in anxious, terrible fear. Then it was as if he had come to himself again and unending time had elapsed between the moment when his father began to count and the present. Everything must be all right by now, only he must try to recall whether he had pushed his father aside and thus made his escape or whether he had held back when his father attempted to drag him down with him. But there he still lay, and there his father still sat. He heard him count "nine" and stop. Consciousness forsook him completely. The old gentleman had in truth ceased to count. His sharp ear heard a hurrying footstep on the stairs. He seized hold of his son and held fast as if to be sure that he did not escape him. So cold and lifeless was the son's body that the father knew it was not necessary to hold him; he must be unconscious. A new uneasiness awoke in him. If the son had lost consciousness, he must be hidden from strange eyes, for this unconsciousness might in some way arouse suspicion. He arose and turned away from the window in the direction of the newcomer. He was undecided whether he would stand before the window covering it with his body or go forward to meet the intruder.
[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD JOSIAH HEARS THE LAW]
The journeyman whom he had sent to Brambach, for it was he who was approaching in such haste, coughed as he came up the stairs. He could keep him back from the scaffolding and most likely prevent him from seeing that somebody was lying there if he went to meet him; if he stood in front of the window it was probable that he would not be able to cover the whole space. The old gentleman felt now for the first time how his strength had been broken by what he had gone through that day. The journeyman, however, observed nothing unusual as Herr Nettenmair, leaning on the rafters of the stairs, barred the way.
"Shall I tell him to come to you here, Herr Nettenmair?" asked the journeyman.
"Tell whom?" Herr Nettenmair had difficulty in retaining his artificial composure.
"He will be home by this time," responded the journeyman. The old gentleman did not repeat his question; he held fast to the rafter on which he was leaning. "He was already on his way home," continued the journeyman. "I came with him as far as the gate. Then he sent me to the tinner's to see if the tin was ready at last. Jörg told me that he had already brought it to the house and had just come from the roof of St. George's where he had led you and I thought because you were in such a hurry to see Herr Apollonius, I would ask you if I must tell him to come up here."
Herr Nettenmair ran his hand up and down the rafter as if he had only taken hold of it to examine it. But, feeling that his hands trembled, he gave up the examination. As grimly as he could, he replied, "I shall come down myself." Wait at the landing until I call you. The journeyman obeyed. Herr Nettenmair drew a deep breath when he knew he was no longer observed. This breath became a sob. The terrible strain which he had undergone was beginning to find an end, and the agony of the father which had been swallowed up till now in passionate fear for the honor of the house, asserted itself. But he knew that his good son's life would hang in the same danger as long as the wicked son lived near him. He had foreseen this contingency and had mapped out a plan of action. He felt his way back to the window. Fritz Nettenmair in the meanwhile had recovered consciousness and been able to rise. The old gentleman bade him come in from the scaffolding and said: "Tomorrow before sunrise you will no longer be here. See if you can become another man in America. Here you are in disgrace, and can only bring disgrace. You will follow me home. I will give you money, you will make ready for the trip. You have done nothing for your wife and children for years. I will take care of them. Do you hear?"