He received his daughters with the exclamation, “You poor, poor children!” But when Els tried to tell him what had given her so much pleasure, he interrupted her to accuse himself, with deep sorrow, of having again permitted sudden passion to master him.  Probably this was the last time; such experiences would cool even the hottest blood.  Then he began to relate what had induced him to raise his hand against the tailor, and as, in doing so, he recalled the insolent hypocrite’s spiteful manner, he again flew into so violent a rage that the blow which he dealt the table made the ink splash up and soil both the paper lying beside it and his own dress, still faultlessly neat even in prison.  This caused fresh wrath, and he furiously crushed the topmost sheet, already half covered with writing, and hurled it on the floor.

Not until Els stooped to pick it up did he calm himself, saying, with a shrug of the shoulders, “Who can remain unmoved when the whirlwind of despair seizes him?  When a swarm of hornets attacks a horse, and it rears, who wonders?  And I—­What stings and blows has Fate spared me?” Els ventured to speak soothingly to him, and remind him of God, and the saints to whom he had made such generous offerings in building the convent; but this awakened an association, and he asked if it were true that Eva had refused to take the veil.

She made a silent gesture of assent, expecting another outburst of anger; but her father only shook his head sorrowfully, clasped her right hand in both his, and said sadly:  “Poor, poor child!  But she, she—­your mother—­ would probably——­The last words her dear lips bestowed upon us concerned you, child, and I believe their meaning——­”

Here the warden interrupted him to remind the girls that it was time to depart; but whilst Els was begging the man for a brief delay, Herr Ernst looked first at the paper and writing materials, then at his daughters, and added with quiet decision:  “Before you go, you must hear that, in spite of everything, I did not wholly lose courage, but began to act.”

“That is right, dear father,” exclaimed Els, and told him briefly and quickly what the Council had decided, how warmly old Berthold Vorchtel had interceded for Wolff, and that the management of the business was to be confided solely to him.

These tidings swiftly and powerfully revived the fading hopes of the sorely stricken man.  He drew up his short figure as if the vigour of youth had returned, declaring that he now felt sure that this first star in the dark night would soon be followed by others.  “It will now be your Wolff’s opportunity,” he exclaimed, “to make amends for much that Fate But I was commencing something else.  Give me that bit of crumpled paper.  I’ll look at it again early to-morrow morning; it is a letter to the Emperor I was composing.  Your brother ought not to have given up his young life on the battlefield for the Crown in vain.  He owes me compensation for the son, you for the brother.  He is certainly a fair-minded man, and therefore will not shut his ears to my complaint.  Just wait, children!  And you, my devout Eva, pray to your saint that the petition, which concerns you also, may effect what I expect.”