Judith pulled her strength together, and, with her child on her arm, followed by Miriam, she went into the passage, and, without knocking, entered her father's study. The room was dimly lighted, and Raphael sat, writing a letter. When he heard the door opening, he looked around. A half-suppressed cry escaped his lips as he stared, with horror and disgust, at the unfortunate girl, who stood like a ghost before him. "Away! away!" he shouted, pointing to the door with shaking hand. "Raphael!" she sobbed, falling on her knees. Miriam stepped forward, and, taking hold of him by his _talar_, cried, despairingly, "Have mercy! She has come home to die." He freed himself, and drew back towards the door into the adjacent room. It was hideous to behold him as he stood there, his pale lips half open, his waxy face distorted, his right hand seeking the door-handle and his left buried in his tangled black hair, a picture of such insane fury and horror that the old woman shuddered. Some seconds passed; neither he nor Judith moved. It was only when the child in her arms began to cry that his consciousness seemed to return. "Take her away!" he cried to Miriam. The voice was hoarse, the words almost indistinguishable. "The burgomaster has her share of the inheritance. There is nothing for her here." "Have pity!" pleaded Miriam. "You were carried at the same bosom. Remember her grave has been prepared for her between that of your father and of your mother." "Yes, more's the pity!" he shouted, madly. "A parricide does not deserve it." Judith groaned and fell prostrate. The child slipped from her arm and screamed. Miriam seized the baby and held it up. "Raphael," she cried, "have mercy upon the innocent child!" But he did not even hear her. He had left the room, and Miriam was alone with the unconscious girl. "Help!" cried the poor old woman. "Father in heaven, have mercy!" Her cry was answered. The door opened, and an old gentleman, with a rugged bronze face and white hair and moustache, entered. It was Dr. Reiser. "Be quiet!" he ordered, for Miriam, at sight of him, had begun to cry much louder with joy than she had just done with despair. He looked at Judith, and turned away deeply moved. He had no need to ask who she was or what had happened. He rushed to the door, called to his coachman, who was waiting (for the doctor had been making a call on the magistrate on the floor above), for his case of medicines. He then bent his energies to bringing his patient out of her swoon. His only assistants were Miriam and the coachman; for old Sarah, who once looked through the open door, ran away timidly when Miriam called her. At last Judith opened her eyes, but the doctor saw immediately that her mind was wandering. "My grave!" she shouted wildly, trying to free herself from the hands of her custodians. "I want my grave!"