"Bring him back, oh, bring him back," whispered the woman beseechingly, and then burst out sobbing. The saints had helped her once, why should they not do so again? Innumerable tears rolled down her cold cheeks and turned to ice on her bosom. She prayed and wrung her hands. She begged for the return of the one as she had formerly begged for the death of the other. One prayer had been granted; Mr. Tiralla was dead. And she knelt there guiltless--for who, who could say that she was to blame? She looked around with wild eyes. At that moment she saw somebody standing before her, between heaven and earth, accusing her. "No!" she shrieked, stretching out her arms. How dared he accuse her? Was it she, she, who had given Mr. Tiralla poison? And even if she had attempted to do so before, the poison had no longer been poison in her hands, for the mushrooms had not harmed him, and the corn had not harmed the poultry. "No, I'm innocent, quite innocent of it." The saints had willed it, they had put into his mind to take some of the powder and swallow it. And they had willed [Pg 317] that he should die of it. So his death had been decided upon in heaven. Folding her hands once more the woman prayed in a whining, fervent voice; would the saints not fulfil her second prayer too, and bring back the man who had fled from her? Her thoughts grew more and more confused. Now she saw Martin Becker, now Mr. Tiralla, and then the angel with the flaming sword. She cowered; alas, alas, was he going to punish her with its sharp edge? But suddenly the sword fell from the angel's hand, and lay gleaming in the snow. He laid his cool hand on her burning brow--oh, that was no longer the cherubim who drives sinners out of the Garden of Eden, that was Rosa, Rosa's hand, and that was her dress. "Help, help!" cried the woman, clinging to her daughter as though she were awaking out of a frightful dream. "You help me. Shall I be lost? Oh, speak! Help, you help me!" And her daughter answered, "I'll pray for you day and night. Calm yourself, mother, I'll intercede for you." She laid both her hands on the woman writhing in despair, and it was as though a soothing stream, as though a mighty saving flood, proceeded from those delicate, yet firm hands. That was no longer Rosa, her young daughter, the delicate girl, who now stood with erect head before the sinner imploring help, and seemed to be visibly growing bigger and bigger. And that was no longer Rosa's voice. It was a more powerful voice, which dominated the howling and whistling of the wind. That was the Bride of Christ. But not the humble, longing maiden; it was the Bride of Christ, the powerful [Pg 318] Church herself, whose voice resounds over the plains as far as the church steeple in Starawies, and further, much further, resounds powerfully throughout the whole world: "_Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis!_" THE END