“See, I pray to Thee, I bend my aged knees; I grovel in the dust before Thee, I kiss Thy earth. Perhaps I have offended Thee: if so, then forgive. It is true I was hard, envious, exacting: I often blamed myself; wilt Thou forgive me? If such is Thy will, punish me, only leave me my son; leave him, I pray Thee. I do not ask for mercy nor for pity, but only for justice. Wicked men tried to kill him--those who offend Thee with their works and make Thy earth hideous. Wicked, pitiless ruffians! who throw stones from behind corners, from behind a corner, the ruffians! Do not let them accomplish their evil work. Staunch the blood; give back life to my son who is so good. Thou didst take everything from me, but did I ever pray as a suppliant: ‘Give me back my riches, give me back my friends, give me back my talent’? No, never; even for my talent I never prayed. And Thou knowest what talent is--it is greater than life. ‘Perhaps it must be so,’ methought, and I bore everything--I bore everything. But now I pray on my knees, in the dust, kissing the earth, let my son live! give my son back his life. I kiss Thy earth.” And then the wife goes to see after the child, and the Man falls to sleep on the sofa and dreams happy dreams of his boy. And the grey figure speaks and says even now, while the Man is dreaming happily, his son has died. The Man awakes and his wife returns, and he asks if his son is dead, and she answers “Yes.” The wife falls at the Man’s feet and cries bitterly, and the Man turns to the grey figure and curses his life and the day when he was born. The fifth and last scene is the death of the Man. It is in an underground cellar where drunkards are laughing and raving. The Man sits apart and alone with his head buried in his hands. His wife is dead, his house is empty; there is nowhere for him to go, he is utterly alone and he is dying, for the candle in the hands of the grey figure has almost burnt out. The old crones who appeared in the first scene of all return once more; they talk and they repeat the set phrases of the guests at the Man’s ball: “How rich! How gorgeous!” They dance round the Man to the tune of the foolish polka which was played at his ball. “Do you remember?” they whisper. “You are going to die. Do you remember? ‘How rich! How gorgeous!’” The dance of the crones grows wilder and swifter, and at last the Man raises himself and cries, “Where is my sword and my shield? I am disarmed--help! Be cur ...” and he falls on a chair and dies. The candle in the hands of the grey figure goes out. The grey figure says, “Be still! The Man is dead.” The crones sing and dance round the dead Man to the sound of the foolish polka, but at last all grows dark and there is silence.