PIETA
Twilight was gathering when the pair reached the valley.
The Passion Theatre loomed like a vast shadow by the roadside, and both, as if moved by the same impulse, turned toward it.
Freyer, drawing a key from his pocket, opened the door leading to the stage. "Shall we take leave of it?" he said.
"Take leave!"
The countess said no more. She knew that the success of the rest of the performances depended solely upon him--and it burdened her soul like a heavy reproach. Yet she did not tell him so, for hers he must be--at any cost.
The strength of her passion swept her on to her robbery of the cross, as the wind bears away the leaf it has stripped from the tree.
They entered the property room. There stood the stake, there lay the scourges which lacerated the sacred body. The spear that pierced his heart was leaning in a corner.
Madeleine von Wildenau gazed around her with a feeling of dread. Freyer had lighted a lamp. Something close beside it flashed, sending its rays far through the dim space. It was the cup, the communion cup! Freyer touched it with a trembling hand: "Farewell! I shall never offer you to any one again! May all blessings flow from you! Happy the hand which scatters them over the world and my beloved Ammergau."
He kissed the brim of the goblet, and a tear fell into it, but it glittered with the same unshadowed radiance. Freyer turned away, and his eyes wandered over the other beloved trophies.