“I want to see,” said the old gentleman in a shrill whisper, “whether I must do it or whether you will do what must be done.  For it must be done.  Nobody knows anything as yet which could lead to an investigation before the courts except me, your wife and Valentine.  For myself I can answer, but not for them; they may betray what they know.  If you should fall now from the scaffolding, so that people could think it was an accident, the great disgrace would be prevented.  The slater who meets his death through accident stands before the world as an honest man—­honest as the soldier who dies on the battle-field.  You are not worthy of such a death, you bankrupt soul.  The hangman should drag you on a cowhide to the gallows, you villain, who have murdered your brother and have tried to poison the future of your innocent children and my past life which has been always full of honor.  You have brought down disgrace enough on your house, you shall not bring more.  They shall never say of me, that my son, or of my grandchildren, that their father, died on the gallows or in the penitentiary.  Say the Lord’s Prayer, now, if you can still pray.  Then turn as if you were going back to your work and step with your right foot over the scaffolding.  If I say the shock of your brother’s death made you dizzy, the courts and the town will believe me.  That is the return for a life that has been different from yours.  If you will not do it of your own accord, I shall go with you and you will have me too on your conscience.  People know that I have trouble with my eyes; they will say that I stumbled and tried to hold on to you and dragged you down with me.  My life is of no value after what I have heard today, but your children’s is just beginning.  And no disgrace shall be attached to them, as truly as my name is Nettenmair.  Make up your mind now what is to be done.  I shall count thirty—­by the pendulum there.”

Fritz Nettenmair had listened to his father’s words with growing horror.  That his deed had not yet become generally known, gave him hope.  Fear of impending death aroused his energies.  He took refuge again in defiance.  Vehemently he declared:  “I do not know what you want.  I am innocent.  I do not know what you mean by an ax.”  He expected his father to enter into his protest, even if sceptically at first.  But the old gentleman began calmly to count—­“one—­two—­”

“Father!” he cried with increasing fear, and his mocking defiance broke into a wail.  “Only listen to me.  The courts would listen and you will not.  I will throw myself over because you want me to be dead; I will die, though I am innocent.  But at least listen to me.”  The old gentleman gave no answer; he counted on.  The miserable man saw that sentence had been pronounced.  His father would not believe him no matter what he said, and he knew that what the stubborn old man undertook, he always carried out, unrelentingly.  First he decided to acquiesce in his fate; then the thought