air was slowly being used up; for although he did not move his chest, did not breathe, the air was entering and leaving his lungs by diffusion. If he could only move, a tap on the side of the box would attract attention and effect his release. Was he doomed to impotence and burial alive? The poor superstitious folk of Rotfernberg, including his sister, would probably flee in terror. It would be hopeless, then, even if he did recover the use of his limbs. They would leave him to struggle futilely in his flower-bedecked prison! Oh, why were these people not educated? Why must they confine themselves to a home and a mountainside?
Gradually he fell into a dreamy, reflective state, in which the first sharp agony of terror had dissolved away from sheer exhaustion; and only two hopes remained in his mind, like brilliant butterflies that rested for a brief moment on a withered flower. First, he must move; and second, his sister must not be afraid; she must set him free from his narrow prison. And these two hopes, bitter for their improbability and sweet for their possibility, were all for which he existed. . . .
To his ears still came the muffled voice of Maria, hoarse and weary from long use; through his eyelids the vigil-light shone. Suddenly he heard the sound of feet in the room where he was lying. He listened carefully; they were men, he calculated, about a half-dozen. Here was new hope! If he moved or made a sound, one of the men might have sense and courage enough to free him. Then his ears caught the sound of voices praying in unison. So now they too were praying for him!
Several minutes grew into an hour, and then the voices became still, including his sister’s. A pang of apprehension ran through him like a red-hot sword. Were they going to leave him? But no. He heard the sound of scraping chairs and the rustle of clothing. They were sitting down. As he listened attentively, he heard a voice that was familiar, low-pitched though it was from respect for the dead, and muffled by the wooden walls that enclosed him. It was Father Josef.
“Please, Fräulein Feldenpflanz,” he insisted gently, "you must go to bed now. You are very weary, and tomorrow you must rise early for your brother’s funeral. Please sleep now.”
There was no answer, but Feldenpflanz heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Maria was going upstairs, evidently.
"Let us hope,” said Father Josef, "that our good friend has no need of our prayers. By now he is in Heaven or Hell. Be it not the latter.”
The six men sat there quietly, nodding their heads.
"Or Purgatory,” added the tailor, looking toward the priest for agreement.
The unmoving man in the coffin almost felt amused.
"After the burial the fräulein will no doubt destroy the unholy things in her brother’s big, white room in the cellar,” spoke up the blacksmith, who was a big man and who very seldom spoke. "I think,” he continued, "that cellars should rightly hold only wines.”
So they would like to see his laboratory destroyed! And after he was buried . . .He made a desperate, mighty attempt to move, but could not. Was it imagination or was the air really growing bad? His head began to swim, and he thought he felt his heart beat a little faster.
"The whole village of Rotfernberg will come to see the Feldenpflanz funeral,” said the mayor, a tall, thin man, "and I will lead the procession. He was one of my best friends, and hence it is only
