Grot came lumbering along and threw himself on the ground by Freder’s side, clutching down into the pit from which the children were scrambling out, screaming. He grabbed the children by the hair, by the neck, by the head, and hauled them up, as one pulls up radishes. His eyes were popping out of his head with fear. He hurled the children over his body, so that they tumbled over, shrieking miserably. He cursed like a hundred devils. “Isn’t that nearly all of them—?” He bawled down two names.... “Father, father—!” sobbed two little voices in the depths. “The devil take you, you couple of Jackanapes!” roared the man. He rummaged the children aside with his fists, as if he were shovelling rubbish on the dustheap. Then he gulped, snorted, clutched out, and had two children hanging around his neck, wet and shivering piteously, but alive—and their limbs stood more in danger of his fumbling fists than previously of the water and the tumbling stones. With the children in both arms, Grot rolled over on his side. He sat up and planted the couple before him. “You God-damned pair of ragamuffins!” he said, amidst sobs. He wiped the tears from his eyes. And sprang up, hurling the children aside, like two little hay-stooks. With the furious roar of a lion, he ran to the door, from the depths of which Maria was emerging, with closed eyes, supported by Freder’s arm. “You bloody—!” he howled out. He dragged Freder aside, shoved the girl back into the depths, slammed the trap-door to, and slung his entire weight upon it, drumming the rhythm of his laughter upon it with clenched fists. A grim effort had kept Freder on his feet. Beside himself, he fell upon the maniac to tug him from the trap-door, fell over him and rolled with him, in furious embrace, among the ruins of the machines. “Let me go, you dog, you mangy dog!” howled Grot, trying to bite at the angry fist which held him. “That woman murdered my machine—That dam’ woman led the rabble—! That woman alone turned the lever to ‘12’—! I saw it when they were trampling on me—! The woman can drown down there—! I’m going to kill that woman—!” With marvellous tension of all his muscles Grot drew himself up and heaved himself, with a jerk, away from the raving man—with such infuriated strength that he, Grot, shot, describing a curve, amidst the children. Cursing ardently, he gathered himself up again; but, though he was uninjured, he could not move a limb. He stuck, an impotent spoon, in a porridge of children, which adhered to his arms, legs and fists. No steel fetters could have condemned him so effectually to helplessness, as did the little cold, wet hands, which were defending her who had rescued them all. Yes, his own children were standing before him, pommelling angrily upon his clenched fists, unscared by the blood-shot eyes with which the giant glared at the dwarves, cudgelling him.