Now she saw clearly. What was lying there was a man. The man lay on his face, legs drawn tightly to his body, as though he had gathered them to him to push himself up and had then not found any more strength to do it. One hand lay thrown over his neck, and its crooked fingers spoke more eloquently than the most eloquent of mouths of a wild self-defence. But the other hand of the heap of humanity lay stretched far away from it, on the square of the trap-door, as though wishing, in itself, to be a bolt to the door. The hand was not of flesh and bone. The hand was of metal, the hand was the masterpiece of Rotwang, the great inventor. Maria threw a glance at the door, on which the seal of Solomon glowed. She ran up to it, although she knew it to be pointless to implore this inexorable door for liberty. She felt, under her feet, distant, quite dull, strong and impelling, a shake, as of distant thunder. The voice of the great Metropolis roared: _Danger—!_ Maria clasped her hands and raised them to her mouth. She ran up to the trap-door. She knelt down. She looked at the heap of humanity which lay at the edge of the trap-door, the metal hand of which seemed obstinately to be defending the trap-door. The fingers of the other hand, thrown over the man’s neck, were turned towards her, poised high, like a beast before the spring. And the trembling shake again—and now much mightier— Maria seized the iron ring of the trap-door. She pushed it up. She wanted to pull up the door. But the hand—the hand which lay upon it—held the door clutched fast. Maria heard the chattering of her teeth. She pushed herself across on her knees towards the motionless heap of humanity. With infinite care, she grasped the hand which lay, as a steel bolt, across the trap-door. She felt the coldness of death proceeding from this hand. She pressed her teeth into her white lips. As she pushed back the hand with all her strength, the heap of humanity rolled over on its side, and the grey face appeared, staring upwards.... Maria tore open the trap-door. She swung herself down, into the black square. She did not leave herself time to close the door. Perhaps it was that she had not the courage, once more to emerge from the depths she had gained, to see what lay up there, at the edge of the trap-door. She felt the steps under her feet, and felt, right and left, the damp walls. She ran through the darkness, thinking only half-consciously: If you lose your way in the City of the Dead.... The red shoes of the magician occurred to her.... She forced herself to stand still, forced herself to listen.... What was that strange sound which seemed to be coming from the passages round about?... It sounded like yawning—it sounded as though the stone were yawning. There was a trickling ... above her head a light grating sound grew audible, as though joint upon joint were loosening itself. Then all was still for a while. But not for long. Then the grating sound began again....