Felix Imhof folded his hands. “To have such power,” he murmured. “Great God, to have the power to project such things!” Weikhardt lowered his head. He attributed little significance to these words. A few days before he had stood in front of his canvas, and he had imagined that a peasant was standing beside him--an old peasant or any other simple man of the people. And it had seemed to him that this peasant, this humble man, who knew nothing of art, had kneeled down to pray. Not from piety, but because what he saw had in its own character overwhelmed him. Almost rudely Imhof turned to the painter and said: “The picture is mine. Under all circumstances. Mine. I must have it. Good-night.” With his top hat set at a crazy angle, and his sleepless, dissipated face, he was a vision to frighten one. At last he went home. Next day Crammon informed him of his arrival in Munich. He had come because Edgar Lorm was about to give a series of performances there. III Christian considered how he could convey money to Amadeus Voss without humiliating him. Since it was agreed that they travel together, it was necessary for Voss to have the proper outfit; and he possessed nothing but what he had on. Amadeus Voss understood the situation. The social abyss yawned between them. Both men gazed helplessly into it, one on each shore. In his own heart Voss mocked at the other’s weakness, and at the same time loved him for his noble shame--loved him with that emotional self that had been humiliated, estranged from the world, stamped on and affronted from his youth on. He shuddered at the prospect of sitting in the forester’s house again with perished hopes and empty hands, and letting his soul bleed to death from the wounds of unattainable lures. He brooded, regarding Christian almost with hatred. What will he do? How will he conquer the difficulty? Time passed. The matter was urgent. On the last afternoon Christian said: “The hours crawl. Let us play cards.” He took a pack of French cards from a drawer. “I haven’t touched a card in my life,” Voss said. “That doesn’t matter,” Christian replied. “All you need do is to tell red from black. I’ll keep the bank. Bet on a colour. If you’ve bet on red and I turn up red, you’ve won. How much will you risk? Let us start with one taler.” “Very well, here it is,” said Voss, and put the silver coin on the table. Christian shuffled the cards and drew one. It was red. “Risk your two talers now,” Christian advised. “Novices have luck.” Voss won the two talers. The betting continued. Once or twice he lost. But finally he had won thirty talers. “Now you take the bank,” Christian proposed. He was secretly pleased that his ruse was working so well.