"Merciful Heavens," shrieked the old woman, "these are the thanks--these are the thanks!" "But all the evil you did to me and Martha I will forgive you, mother," he continued, "nay, more even! On my bended knees I will ask your forgiveness for ever having harboured a bitter thought against you; but one thing you must do for me--here by her dead body you must swear that you knew of nothing, that in all things you were speaking the truth." And he dragged her to the corpse that stared up at him with its ecstatic smile--a bride's smile to her bridegroom. "That such a thing should be necessary between us," complained the old woman, and cast a glance of bitter hatred at him out of her swollen eyes. But she suffered him to lay her right hand on the dead girl's forehead; she stroked it and sobbed, "I swear it, my sweet one, you know best that I knew nothing and never required anything wrong of you." Thereupon she gave a sigh of relief, as if she had suddenly come to understand what a gain this tragic deed would mean for her and her family. Sincere gratitude lay in the tender caress with which she fondled the dead face. At this moment the old physician came rushing into the room. He had hoped to overtake Robert and prepare him for the worst, and saw in terror that he had come too late. Old Hellinger hurried towards him and whispered in his ear: "Take him away, he is out of his senses! We can do nothing with him here!" Robert stood there clutching at the bed-posts, his chest heaving, his face as if turned to stone with gloomy, tearless misery. The old doctor rubbed his stubbly grey beard against his shoulder, and growled in that roughly compassionate way which goes quickest to the hearts of strong men. "Come away, my boy; don't do anything foolish; do not disturb her rest." Robert started and nodded several times. Then suddenly--as if overpowered by his misery--he fell down in front of the bed and cried out, "Wherefore didst thou die?" IV. Wherefore had she died? This question henceforth puzzled the whole town completely. In the streets--at the tea-table, on the alehouse benches--it was the one topic for discussion. People indulged in the most out-of-the-way surmises, the most hazardous conjectures were put forward, and still no one was one whit the wiser. Some spoke of an unhappy, others of an over-happy love affair, and others again declared that they had always predicted that she would not come to a good end. During her life-time already, her proud, taciturn, reserved nature had been a riddle to the good homely townfolk; now her death was a still greater riddle to them.