With angry defiance he turned upon himself saying, “That is as it should be! The stronger one conquers, and you were the weaker!” But why was he the weaker? Because he had undertaken a task that from the very first exceeded his powers. Each one knows his own capabilities. But what had tempted him to undertake something beyond him? Why, in the most forlorn and miserable situation of his whole life--a situation that seemed so incredible that he still had a faint hope it might prove only a dream--why was he able to guide and reason out his thoughts like the solution of an arithmetical problem? What was it that had enticed him? He knew the answer. It was the good in him, the outcome of his feeling of responsibility towards his fellow-countrymen. He wanted to help them, and because his conscience was stronger than his powers, he had come to grief. If this experience were to end in his death, at least he would die in a good cause, and the soul-sparks which at his death would flame up again in some other existence would form a beacon to light others upward.... He would live again in spirit among men.... The sound of the motor echoed through the forest, and Wenk heard it. What was the enemy’s plan regarding him? The car raced on through the night like a ship driven by the typhoon. Where was it going? Whither were they taking him? Was it to Munich? But, if so, why? If they wanted to put him to death for having disturbed the powers of evil and undermined their efforts, why did they not take their revenge at once, instead of delaying it for hours? He noticed that the windows of the car had no blinds, and he saw stars gleaming fitfully through the panes. They would not arrive in Munich till the morning, and it would be impossible to drive a fettered man by daylight over half Germany in a car with the inside exposed. They were carrying him off somewhere or other, but where? Where could it be? It must have been midnight when he left the villa, but even that he did not know for certain, for of all that had happened to him since the moment when he had tested his pulse, he had only a dim and hazy idea. They must certainly be taking him to the place of execution now. He recalled, with an endless yearning which seemed to encompass him like the sea, his long-dead father, and with all his energy he clung to these recollections, melancholy as their associations were. The jolting hither and thither of his body in the car and the mental excitement under which he was labouring made him sick, and in his helpless state he could not even turn his head aside. His brain lost the power of thinking in clear outlines. Spectres arose around him and devils played ball with him. They tossed him backwards and forwards between the Carse of Gowrie and Aconcagua, let him fall, and snatched at him again, just as he was about to be dashed to pieces on the Cape of Good Hope.