can prove it?  And if he could prove it, he would never tell, of that I am sure.  Otherwise why does he speak so softly?  He may say what he will—­I know nothing, it was not I. I have done nothing.”  The muscles of his face quivered; an expression of wild defiance played upon his features.  The old gentleman said no word.  The sound of traffic in the streets rose muffled to the heights, violet shadows lay on all below, about Apollonius’ swinging seat trembled the sun’s last ray.

“Where is your brother?” came at last from between the father’s teeth.

“I do not know.  How should I know?” answered the son defiantly.

“You do not know?” It was only a whisper but every word struck like thunder in the soul of the son.  “I will tell you.  Yonder in Brambach he lies dead.  The rope broke with him, and you had made slits in it with the ax.  Our neighbor saw you sneaking into the shed.  You threatened before your wife that you would do it.  The whole town knows it, they are carrying it now to the courts.  The first person who comes up these steps will be the bailiff to lead you before the judge.”

Fritz Nettenmair broke down completely; the scaffolding creaked beneath him.  The old gentleman listened.  If the miserable wretch should fall over the edge of the scaffolding, he would be plunged into the depths and all would be over.  All that had to be, would be!  A lark soared above them scattering its merry Tirili over trees and houses.  Happier mortals heard the song from afar; workmen let their spades rest, children their whips and tops; with eyes turned heavenward all sought the soaring, singing bird and hearkened with bated breath.  Herr Nettenmair did not hear the lark; he also held his breath, but he was listening to what was happening below, not above.  It was nothing that sounded like the song of a lark which he wanted to hear.  There was a rumbling, and a broken cry of anguish.  At first he listened full of hope, then filled with despair.  On the boards of the scaffolding before him he heard the rattle of heavy breathing.  Fate, which might have stretched out a sympathizing, helping hand, had not done so.  He must do it, for it must be done.  If he did not, people would point their finger at the children and say:  “It was their father who slew his brother and died on the gallows” or “in the penitentiary.”  And when it was long forgotten the children would only need to appear and it would be called into life again; people would point with their fingers and turn from them in horror.  The confidence of the world which one inherits from one’s parents is the capital with which one begins life.  Confidence must be placed in man before he deserves it, in order that he may learn to deserve it.  Who would place confidence in children branded with a father’s guilt?  The flush on his thin cheeks burned brighter, his sunken breast panted heavily.  Involuntarily he pointed forward with his arm.  Fritz Nettenmair divined his meaning, tried to pull himself together, and would have sunk helplessly down again if he had not supported himself with both hands.  Lying thus on his hands and knees before the old gentleman he cried out in an agony of fear, “What do you want, father?  What have you in mind?”