I often wonder what I shall do when I see him again, when he comes in some evening before we’ve got the lamp lit, with his head shaved, prison-fashion, and stutters out “Good-evening” with his hand glued to the door-latch. I shall do something, I know, but what? (_Grinding his teeth._) And if they keep him ten years, he’ll find me still. I shall live till then, I know that. Mark you, Death! From now on I’m a stone to your scythe. Sooner shall it be shattered in your hands, than move me an inch. CLARA (_taking his hand_). Father, do lie down for half an hour. ANTHONY. To dream you are in child-bed, eh? And jump up and lay hold of you and then remember, and say I didn’t know what I was doing? Thank you, no. My sleep has dismissed its magician and hired a prophet instead, who shows me fearful things with his bloody fingers. I don’t know how it is. Anything seems possible to me now. Ugh! The future makes me shudder, like a glass of water seen through a microscope--is that right, Mr. Choir-master, you’ve spelt it for me often enough? I did that once at the fair in Nürnberg, and couldn’t take a drink the whole day after it. I saw our Karl last night with a pistol in his hand. When I looked at him more closely, he fired. I heard a cry, but I couldn’t see anything for smoke. When the smoke cleared, there was no split skull to be seen, but in the meantime my fine son had become a rich man. He was standing counting gold pieces from one hand into the other, and his face--devil take me if a man could look more placid, if he had slaved all day and just locked up his work-shop. We might look out for that. We might first sit in judgment, and then go ourselves before the greatest judge of all. CLARA. Do calm yourself! ANTHONY.