For the space of some seconds there was so deep and perfect a silence that the golden glow of the morning, breaking forth, strong and radiant had the effect of a powerful roar. Then Joh Fredersen turned around, breaking into a run. He flung himself at the door. So forceful and irresistible was this movement that it seemed as if the closed door itself were not able to withstand it. Past the knots of human beings ran Joh Fredersen—across to the staircase and down the steps. His course was as a pauseless series of leaps. He did not notice the height. With hands stretched forward he ran, in bounds, his hair rearing up like a flame above his brow. His mouth was wide open and between his parted lips there hovered—a soundless scream—the unscreamed name: “Freder!” An infinity of stairs ... clefts ... rents in walls ... smashed stone blocks ... twisted iron ... destruction ... ruin.... The street. The day was streaming down, red, upon the street.... Howls in the air. And the gleam of flame. And smoke.... Voices ... shouts—and no exultant shouting ... shouts of fear, of horror, of terribly strained tension.... At last the cathedral square.... The bonfire. The mob ... men, women, immeasurable masses ... but they were not gazing at the bonfire, on the smoking fieriness of which smouldered a creature of metal and glass, with the head and body of a woman. All eyes were turned upwards, towards the heights of the cathedral, the roof of which sparkled in the morning sunshine. Joh Fredersen stopped, as though a blow had been struck at his knees. “What ...” he stammered. He raised his eyes, he raised his hands quite slowly to the level of his head ... his hands rested upon his hair. Soundlessly, as though mown down, he fell upon his knees. Upon the heights of the cathedral roof, entwined about each other, clawed to each other, wrestled Freder and Rotwang, gleaming in the sunlight. They fought, breast pressed to breast, knee to knee. One did not need very sharp eyes to see that Rotwang was by far the stronger. The slender form of the boy, in white-silken tatters, bent under the throttling grip of the great inventor, farther and farther backwards. In a fearfully wonderful arch the slender, white form was extended, head back, knees bent forward. And the blackness which was Rotwang stood out, massy, mountain-like, above the silken whiteness, forcing it downwards. In the narrow gallery of the spire Freder crumpled up like a sack and lay in the corner, stirring no more. Above him, straightened up, yet bent forward—Rotwang, staring at him, then turning.... Along the narrow roof ridge, towards him—no, towards the dullish bundle of white silk, staggered Maria. In the light of the morning, risen glorious and imperious, her voice fluttered out like the mourning of a poor bird: “Freder—Freder—!” Whispers broke out in the cathedral square. Heads turned and hands pointed. “Look—Joh Fredersen! Look over there—Joh Fredersen!” A woman’s voice yelled out: