The physicians arrived when they were sewing the stoker, Zickelmann, into
sail-cloth. The bare cabin was not very brilliantly lighted by a single
electric bulb. Frederick recalled his dream--how the dead stoker had been
standing under the vines with the cords in his hand and had then led
Peter Schmidt and himself to the Toilers of the Light. A great change had
taken place in his appearance. His face was no longer of flesh, but
seemed to be chiselled out of yellow wax, to which his hair, his eyebrows
and beard were pasted. A faint, cunning smile seemed to be curving his
mouth; and when Frederick with odd interest and curiosity scrutinised him
closely, it seemed to him he was saying, "_Legno santo!_ Toilers of the
Light!"
When the dead man's face was covered up and his whole body had been sewed
into the cloth in coarse stitches, the sailors bound the puppet, with
difficulty keeping it in position, on a smoothly planed board, weighted
with iron.
"Will such a chrysalis ever really turn into a butterfly?" Frederick
wondered.
The procedure, a piece of reeling, staggering acrobatics, was less
gruesome than ridiculous. Yet, though this long package might be only the
mortal shell of an immortal soul, one had a sense of infinite sadness in
entrusting it to the fearful solitudes of the ocean.
Since in the stormy weather it was no easy matter to throw the corpse
overboard and since it was impossible to conduct ceremonies on a rolling
deck constantly washed by the waves, the purser asked the few persons
present--Captain von Kessel could not leave the bridge--to say a silent
prayer for the soul of the dead man. They did so, and four of the
stoker's mates, staggering, stopping, lurching and panting, carried the
long package on deck to the railing, where at the word of command they
let it slide into the sea.
When Doctor Wilhelm bade Frederick good-night, he added:
"You ought to try to go to sleep."
They parted, and Frederick hunted for a sheltered spot on deck, where he
could spend the night. He wanted to look the wind and weather straight in
the face, there in the glacial air, in the gloom under the pale sheen of
the arc-lights fastened to the mast. He shuddered at the thought of a
night in the oppressive confines of his cabin, with the closed port-hole
and the hot, stale air. But that alone was not the reason which kept him
chained to the deck. It was the urge, in case of danger, to be near
Ingigerd Hahlström. And when he seated himself near the smoke-stack,
with his back against the heated wall, his hat drawn low over his face,
his chin in his coat collar, he suddenly laughed to himself bitterly.
It was in the same position and on the selfsame spot that he had found
Achleitner the night before.
There was a rushing in Frederick's ears. He observed the huge arcs that
the lights on the mast described. He observed the regular onslaught of
the waves, and above the seething and foaming of the water, he heard the
miauing of the wind in the rigging, a wicked obstinate miauing,
accompanied by the sudden spitting and leaping of a tiger. Then the
sounds seemed to Frederick to be more like the pitiful whimpering of
strayed children, a troop of children whom he could now distinctly
discern weeping over the bier of the dead stoker. And there were the
Toilers of the Light again. He immediately snatched for one to carry it
to Ingigerd Hahlström in her cabin; but Ingigerd was dressing for her
famous dance. The great spider was already hanging on the flower, weaving
the cobweb in which Mara was later to entangle herself. Frederick asked
for a broom. He wanted to prevent the dance by sweeping the spider away.
A broom came, but in the form of a serving man, who was carrying water
and pouring it out. Another man followed and a third and a fourth, until
everything was flooded with rushing waters. Frederick awoke from a dream
in which he was learning sorcery. The momentous word that chains the
floods was still on his lips. The waves rushed. He fell asleep again. Now
it was the rushing of a stream at his feet. The sun was shining. It was a
clear morning. From the other shore came his wife, young, beautiful, in a
dress of flowered goods, rowing her skiff. Her full, gentle figure had
the charm of the vestal virgin and the wife. From woods nearby, Ingigerd
appeared in the delicacy and the adornment of her light hair and naked
body. The sunny landscape, of which her pure nudity was a part, seemed
to belong to the time before Adam and Eve were driven from Paradise.
Frederick took his wife's hand--she was smiling on him graciously--took
Ingigerd Hahlström's hand--she seemed to be gentle and pure and
obedient--and joined them. He said to Ingigerd:
"And thou shalt walk in brightness;
I'll purge thee clean of all thy dross."
But the heavens darkened, the woods blackened, and the light of a ghostly
moon rose over the trees, rushing fearfully like great waters. Frederick
ran along the edge of gloomy fields, when suddenly the cry "Moira!
Moira!" resounded, and a piece of the darkness severed itself from the
edge of the woods and soared heavily, as if borne by mighty black
pinions. It was a gigantic bird, crying, "Moira, Moira!" Frederick fled.
He was struck by hideous fear, as if the fearful roc were after him.
"Moira, Moira!" He drew his penknife to defend himself.
He awoke to find himself lying undressed in his berth. Someone had
discovered him, as he had discovered Achleitner the night before, and had
led him down to his cabin. But the cry "Moira!" which reminded him of the
Moeræ, the ancient goddesses of fate, still rang fearfully in his ears.