“Shall I tell him to come to you here, Herr Nettenmair?” asked the journeyman.

“Tell whom?” Herr Nettenmair had difficulty in retaining his artificial composure.

“He will be home by this time,” responded the journeyman.  The old gentleman did not repeat his question; he held fast to the rafter on which he was leaning.  “He was already on his way home,” continued the journeyman.  “I came with him as far as the gate.  Then he sent me to the tinner’s to see if the tin was ready at last.  Joerg told me that he had already brought it to the house and had just come from the roof of St. George’s where he had led you and I thought because you were in such a hurry to see Herr Apollonius, I would ask you if I must tell him to come up here.”

Herr Nettenmair ran his hand up and down the rafter as if he had only taken hold of it to examine it.  But, feeling that his hands trembled, he gave up the examination.  As grimly as he could, he replied, “I shall come down myself.”  Wait at the landing until I call you.  The journeyman obeyed.  Herr Nettenmair drew a deep breath when he knew he was no longer observed.  This breath became a sob.  The terrible strain which he had undergone was beginning to find an end, and the agony of the father which had been swallowed up till now in passionate fear for the honor of the house, asserted itself.  But he knew that his good son’s life would hang in the same danger as long as the wicked son lived near him.  He had foreseen this contingency and had mapped out a plan of action.  He felt his way back to the window.  Fritz Nettenmair in the meanwhile had recovered consciousness and been able to rise.  The old gentleman bade him come in from the scaffolding and said:  “Tomorrow before sunrise you will no longer be here.  See if you can become another man in America.  Here you are in disgrace, and can only bring disgrace.  You will follow me home.  I will give you money, you will make ready for the trip.  You have done nothing for your wife and children for years.  I will take care of them.  Do you hear?”

Fritz Nettenmair reeled.  He had just looked inevitable death in the face and now he might live!  Live where nobody knew what he done, where every chance sound would not frighten him with the vision of the bailiff.

“Apollonius did not fall,” continued the old gentleman, and Fritz Nettenmair’s bright, new heaven sank into nothingness.  The old spectre held him again in its grasp.  He loved again the woman from whom he had just wanted to flee.  The old gentleman had awaited his son’s assent.  “You will go,” he said, when the son remained silent.  “You will go.  Tomorrow before day-break you will be on your way to America, or I shall be on my way to the court.  If disgrace must be, it is better to have disgrace alone and not disgrace combined with murder.  Remember, I have sworn it.  Take your choice.”

The old gentleman called to the journeyman to come up to him and lead him home.