And there, at the top end of the long, roughly-hewn table, with flabby cheeks, with his eyes all red and swollen, with that glassy stare habitual to drunkards, with matted, unkempt hair, with a dirty shirt-collar and slovenly coat to which hang blades of straw--perhaps the reminders of his last night quarters--there that picture of precocious vice and hopeless ruin, that, that is all that remains to him of his darling, of his all in all ... "Johannes!" he cries, and the driver's whip which he holds in his hand falls clattering to the ground. A dead silence comes over the densely crowded room, as the tipplers gaze openmouthed at this intruder. The wretched man has started up from his seat, his face petrified with nameless fear, a hollow groan breaks from his lips; with one desperate leap he springs upon the table; with a second one he endeavors to reach the door over the heads of those sitting nearest to him. No good! His brother's iron fist is planted upon his chest. "Stay here!" he hears close to his ear in angry, muffled accents; thereupon he feels himself being pushed with superhuman strength towards the fire-corner, where he sinks down helplessly. Then Martin opens the door as far as ever its hinges will allow, points with the butt-end of his whip towards the dark entry and plants himself in the middle of the taproom. "Out with you!" he cries in a voice which makes the glasses on the table vibrate. The tipplers, most of them green youths, retreat in terror before him, and hastily don their caps; only here and there some suppressed grumbling is heard. "Out with you!" he cried once more and makes a gesture as if about to take one of the nearest grumblers by the throat. Two minutes later the taproom is swept clear ... only the innkeeper remains, standing half petrified with fear behind the bar; now, when Martin fixes his gloomy gaze upon him, he begins to complain in a whining tone of this disturbance to his business. Martin puts his hand in his pocket, throws him a handful of florins and says: "I wish to be alone with him." When he has bolted the door after the humbly bowing innkeeper, he walks with slow steps towards Johannes, who is crouching motionless in his corner, with his face buried in his hands. He places his hand gently upon his shoulder and says in a voice in which infinite love and infinite pain tremble: "Rise up, my boy; let us talk to one another." Johannes does not stir. "Will you not tell me what grievance you have against me? It will do you good to speak out, my boy! Relieve your feelings, my boy!" Johannes drops his hands and laughs hoarsely: "Relieve my feelings! Ha-ha-ha!" That secret terror that distorted his features before as with a cramp has now changed to dull, obstinate stubbornness.