And at last his groping hand hurt itself against a piece of glass that stuck out from underneath.... He stopped and felt carefully all round.... The fragment must be the one which Greta had carried out in early spring to plant asters in; a piece of a green bottle with sharp-pointed edges--yes, here it was. The faded stalks were still in it. And near it the wreath, the heather wreath, which appeared to be frozen stiff, like a stone ring; he had put it there himself the last time he had been here. When he saw the little heap of snow, which hid all that was dearest to him, lying so white and still, he fell on his knees, and buried his face in the cool, soft flakes. “It is all my fault, mother,” he lamented; “I have not watched over them, I have let them run wild. Do not judge them, mother, they knew not what they did!... But I implore you, mother, show me how to act! Send me only one word from beyond the grave.... See, I kneel here and do not know what to do.” And then he suddenly felt as if he had no right to lie in that place; he felt as if the shame which his sisters had brought upon themselves was resting on him, too. He called himself a coward, selfish and lazy, because he had remained inactive for such a long time without daring the worst. “I will do it, mother, this very night,” he cried, springing up. “There shall be no question of myself. I will relinquish the last remnant of pride, if only my sisters can be saved.” He vowed it with uplifted arms, and hurried out onto the heath. For wellnigh three hours he struggled along the snowed-up roads. It might have been eight o’clock when he stopped, tired and breathless, before the gates of Lotkeim. “To-day they shall not escape me,” he said, and as he found the gate locked again, he lay down and crept through underneath the fence, as he had seen dogs do. The windows of the manor-house were brightly lighted up, but as the curtains had been let down, nothing could be seen of the room inside; only snatches of song and laughter floated out into the open air. The house door stood open. He stopped for a moment in the dark hall to stifle the beating of his heart; then he knocked. Ulrich’s voice called out, “Come in!” There lay the two brothers, stretched out on a long sofa, the feet of the one near the head of the other, a picture of perfect peace of mind and serenity of soul. Each of them balanced a big glass of grog on the palm of his hand, and before them on the table stood a steaming punch-bowl. They were so startled at the sight of him that they forgot to get up. They were petrified, and remained lying as they were and staring at him. “I say!” cried Ulrich, who was the first to recover his speech, and Fritz let his glass fall jingling to the ground. Then the one stooped down and gathered up the fragments of glass with great zeal. “You can well imagine why I come,” said Paul, slowly stepping to the table in his snow-sprinkled garments. “No!” said Ulrich, who slowly raised himself.