Her first swallow of warm milk revived her. "What if the mice should come in here?" was her first question. "I will kill them here too, and bury them in the snow to get rid of the stench. By the way, I must bury those I killed in the kitchen." Again Annele looked at him in amazement. Was this man, so bold in the face of death, the old, sensitive, shiftless Lenz? A kind word rose to her lips, but did not get spoken. "That plaguy raven has bitten me," said Lenz, returning with his hand bleeding. "The fellow is wild with terror at having been swept away by the force of the avalanche; there is no catching him. A whole pillar of snow has fallen down the chimney. Hark! that is ten o'clock. People are coming out of church now. We were buried just as the last bells were ringing. It was our death-knell." "I will not die yet; I am so young! And my child! I never knew, I never imagined that I was going to my death when I condescended to live in this desert with you clockmakers." "It is your father's fault," answered Lenz. "My parents were three times snowed up, so that for two and three days they could not go outside the house, on account of the depth of snow that lay there; but they were never buried. Your father disposed of the wood, and had it cut down over my head. This is his work." "You have no one but yourself to blame. He wanted to give you the wood." "That is true." "Oh, if I and my child were but out of this place!" cried Annele, beginning her lamentations afresh. "And do you care nothing for me?" Without appearing to hear him she cried again, "O God, why must I die thus? What have I done?" "What have you done? yet a little while and God himself will tell you. My words are spent in vain." Both were silent; a secret power seemed forcing Annele to speak, but she could not.