The first two days after Jan’s death Katrina had stayed on the pier with Glory Goldie, and watched for his return.  Then she went back to Ruffluck.  It was not from any feeling of indifference that she stopped coming to the pier, it was simply that she could not stand being with her daughter and hearing her speak of Jan.  For Glory Goldie did not disguise her real sentiments.  Katrina knew it was not from any sense of pity or remorse that Glory Goldie was so determined her father’s body should rest in consecrated soil, but she was afraid, unreasonably afraid while the one for whose death she was responsible still lay unburied at the bottom of the lake.  She felt that if she could only get her father interred in churchyard mould he would not be such a menace to her.  But so long as he remained where he was she must live in constant terror of him and of the punishment he would mete out to her.

Glory Goldie stood on the Borg pier looking down at the lake, which was now gray and turgid.  Her gaze did not penetrate beneath the surface of the water, yet she seemed to see the whole wide expanse of lake bottom underneath.

Down there sat he, the Emperor of Portugallia, his hands clasped round his knees, his eyes fixed on the gray-green water—­in constant expectation that she would come to him.  His imperial regalia had been discarded, for the stick and cap had never gone down into the depths with him, and the paper stars had of course been dissolved by the water.  He sat there now in his old threadbare coat with two empty hands.  But there was no longer anything pretentious or ludicrous about him; now he was only powerful and awe-inspiring.

It was not without reason he had called himself an emperor.  So great had been his power in life that the enemy whose evil deeds he hated had been overthrown, while his friends had received help and protection.  This power he still possessed.  It had not gone from him even in death.

Only two persons had ever wronged him.  One of them had already met his doom.  The other one was herself—­his daughter who had first driven him out of his mind and had afterward caused his death.  Her he bided down there in the deep.  His love for her was over.  Now he awaited her not to render her praise and homage, but to drag her down into the realms of death, as punishment for her heartless treatment of him.

Glory Goldie had a weird temptation:  she wanted to remove the heavy coffin lid and slide the coffin into the lake, as a boat, and then to get inside and push away from shore, and afterward stretch herself out on the bed of sawdust at the bottom of the coffin.

She wondered whether she would sink instantly or whether she would drift a while, until the lashing waves filled her bark and drew it under.  She also thought that she might not sink at all but would be carried out to sea only to be cast ashore at one of the elm-edged points.  She felt strangely tempted to put herself to the test.  She would lie perfectly still the whole time, she said to herself, and use neither hand nor foot to propel the coffin.  She would put herself wholly at the mercy of her judge; he might draw her down or let her escape as he willed.