"Don't swear." He caught hold of her raised hand and pulled it down. "You must not swear." "Why not?" She stood erect before him with sparkling eyes and head thrown back. "Ask Marianna, ask Mikolai; he, Mr. Tiralla, took the poison himself in the stables; we found it still in his hand. I--I"--she struck her breast and again raised her fingers to swear--"I'm innocent of it. The saints have willed it." He looked her full in the face scrutinizingly, as though he would pierce her with his eyes. "The [Pg 315] saints have willed it," he repeated, then, as though reconciling himself to the fact. But when she attempted to seize his hand in her elation--ah, he still loved her after all, he could not leave her--he shook his head and looked away from her in fear. "Even if it were heaven on earth here, I would not stop," he whispered. "I see that man"--pointing to the door--"the whole time before my eyes. He must separate us, so help me God. Good-bye." He held out his hand to her, although he could hardly bring himself to do it. All at once he feared her hand, it was as though something were dragging him away from it. "I prefer to go immediately. Mikolai is there, he'll arrange everything for you. I cannot--cannot stay any longer." And he rushed out of the door and into the yard. She stood there as if turned to stone, and her eyes were fixed. What, he was going after all? Mr. Tiralla was dead and yet he was going to leave her? "Martin!" she screamed shrilly, rushing after him. He ran like a stag and she like a hind. "Martin, Martin!" But she could not reach him. Purgatory and Hell were flaming behind Martin Becker and Eternal Salvation was beckoning to him. So he ran as he had never done before, without coat or hat, and but thinly clad for such a raw day. He would let everything remain behind, box and belongings, everything he called his own, he did not want anything more from Starydwór, for sin was cleaving to it, sin that clave like blood. He ran through the fields like a boy who has lost his way and is trying to get home to his mother. She saw him ran, but she could not follow him further, she sank down at the gate. She crouched in the frozen snow with a low cry. How red everything [Pg 316] looked. Was it blood that had been spilt? She shuddered as she gazed around like one demented. Or was it the wintry sun that had dyed everything red? Yes--she drew a deep breath--oh, yes, it was only the sun. The whole sky was aglow, and it was that which made the glistening snow look red. She would implore the saints to help her. But she could not rise, her ankles felt broken, so she slid on her knees to the grating in the wall, behind which stood the image of the Holy Mother with her Child. The withered wreath was still there, which she had made of corn and flowers and clover, and hung up on a happy day.