Then the girl, dragging herself along at the end of the train, felt that the cord, the invisible cord upon which she was hanging, snapped. She turned around and began, not knowing, whither, to run—only to get away—only to get away—no matter where to—only to get away—! The streets flashed by in a whirl. She ran and ran, down, and down, and at last she saw, running along the bottom of the street and towards her, a wild mob of people, saw, too, that the men wore the blue linen uniform and sobbed in relief: “Brothers—brothers—!” And stretched out her hands. But a furious roar answered her. Like a collapsing wall, the mass hurled itself forward, shook itself loose and began to tear along, roaring loudly. “There she is—! There she is—! The bitch, who is to blame for it all—! Take her—! Take her—!” The women’s voices shrieked: “The witch—! Kill the witch—! Burn her before we all drown!” And the trampling of running feet filled the dead street, through which the girl fled, with the din of hell broken loose. The houses flashed by in a whirl. She did not know the way in the dark. She sped on, running aimlessly, in a blind horror, which was the deeper for her not knowing its origin. Stones, cudgels, fragments of steel, flew at her from behind. The mob roared in a voice which was no longer human: “After her—! After her—! She’ll escape us—! Quicker—!! Quicker—!!” Maria could no longer feel her feet. She did not know if she was running on stones or water. Her panting breath came through lips which stood apart as those of one drowning. Up streets, down streets.... A twirling dance of lights was staggering across the way, far ahead of her.... Far away, at the end of the enormous square, in which Rotwang’s house also lay, the mass of the cathedral rested upon the earth, weighty and dark, yet showing a tender, reassuring shimmer, which fell through cheerful stained-glass windows and through open portal, out into the darkness. Suddenly breaking out into sobs, Maria threw herself forward with her last, entirely despairing strength. She stumbled up the cathedral steps, stumbled through the portal, perceived the odour of incense, saw little, pious candles of intercession before the image of a gentle saint who was suffering smilingly, and collapsed on to the flags. She no longer saw how, at the double opening of the street which led to the cathedral, the stream of dancers from Yoshiwara coincided with the roaring stream of workmen and women, did not hear the bestial shriek of the women at the sight of the girl who was riding along on the shoulders of a dancer—who was torn down, overtaken, captured and stamped to earth—did not see the short, ghastly hopeless conflict of the men in evening dress with the men in blue linen—nor the ridiculous fight of the half-naked women before the claws and fists of the workmen’s wives.