Slowly, as if his feet could scarcely support him, a tall figure, strangely like one who no longer belongs to the number of the living, tottered through the crowd to the door of the dressing-room, while all reverently made way for him, yet every one perceived that it must be the Christus! Whoever met his eye shuddered as if the incarnation of woe had passed, as if he had seen the face of the god of sorrow.
Eight o'clock had struck, the cannon had announced the commencement of the play, the waiting throng pressed in, crowding each other, and the doors were closed.
Outside of the theatre it was silent and empty. The carriages had driven away. The people who could get no tickets had dispersed. Only the venders of photographs and eatables still sat in their booths, listening idly and sleepily to the notes of the music, which came in subdued tones through the board partition.
Suddenly the ground trembled slightly under the wheels of a carriage driven at furious speed. A pair of horses covered with foam appeared in the distance--in a few seconds a dusty victoria stopped before the Passion Theatre.
"St, st!" said one of the box-tenders, appearing at the top of the stairs and hurrying down to prevent farther disturbance.
"Can I get a ticket?" asked the lady in the carriage.
"I am very sorry--but unfortunately every seat is filled."
"Oh, Heaven! I lost an hour--one of the horses met with an accident, I have driven all night--I beg you--I must get in!"
The box-tender shrugged his shoulders. "Unfortunately it is impossible!" he said with an offensively lofty manner.
"I am not accustomed to find anything which I desire impossible, so far as it depends upon human beings to fulfill it," she answered haughtily. "I will pay any price, no matter whether it is a thousand marks, more or less--if you will get me even the poorest seat within the walls."