The Schulrath, at his wits' end, gave vent to his embarrassment in a warm curse or two upon the Venner's head; he tried to establish a peace congress between the husband and wife (who were sunk in silent musing), and strongly urged Lenette to give her hand to her husband and be reconciled to him. But nothing would induce her. Yet, after long hesitation, she agreed to do it, but only on condition that he would first _wash_ his hands. Hers shrunk away in convulsive loathing from touching those which had been in contact with a skull. The Schulrath took away the battle-flag from them, and delivered a peace-sermon which came warm from his heart. He reminded them what the place was in which they stood, surrounded by human beings all gone to their last account; he bade them think for a moment how near they were to the angels who guard the graves of the just, the very mother (he pointed out) who was mouldering at their feet, with her baby in her arms (and whose eldest son he himself was bringing along in his Latin studies--he was then in Scheller's _principia_), might be said to be admonishing them not to fall out about a flower or two over her quiet grave, but rather to take them away as olive-branches of peace. Lenette's heart drank _his_ theologic holy water with far greater zest than Firmian's pure, philosophic Alp water, and the latter's lofty thoughts of Death shot athwart her soul without the slightest penetration. However, the sacrifice of reconciliation was accomplished and mutual letters of indulgence exchanged. At the same time, a peace like this, brought about by a third party, is always something in the nature of a mere suspension of hostilities. Strangely enough they both awoke in the morning with tears in their eyes, but could not tell whether happy dreams or sad ones had left these drops behind. FIRST FLOWER PIECE. THE DEAD CHRIST PROCLAIMS THAT THERE IS NO GOD. INTRODUCTION. My aim in writing this fiction must be my excuse for its audacity. Men, as a class, deny God's existence with about the same small amount of true consideration, conviction, and feeling as that with which most individual men admit it. Even in our regularly established _systems_ of belief we form collections of mere words, game-counters, medallions--just as coin-collectors accumulate cabinetsful of coins--and not till long after our collection is made do we convert the words into sentiments, the coins into enjoyments. We may believe in the immortality of the soul for twenty years long, yet it may be the twenty-first before, in some one supreme moment, we suddenly perceive, to our astonishment, what this belief involves, and how wonderful is the warmth of that naphtha spring.