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But Lilith had vanished. He returned to his labours. The operation took a long time, for he performed it very carefully. Towards midnight, he had finished encasing the body in a close-clinging shell of plaster, which, when broken off, and fitted together, would be the matrix to the form of the dead Wolkenlicht.
And it was in virtue of this, that Wolkenlicht loved Lilith yet more after he discovered what a grave of misery her unbelief was digging for her within her own soul. For her sake he would bear anything bear even with calmness the torments of his own love; he would stay on, hoping and hoping.
Whether she meant that the corn was therefore superior to man, forgetting that the superior can produce being without losing its own, or only advanced an objection to her father's argument, Wolkenlicht could not tell.
The minutes had swept over her head, not through her mind, and she did not know that the dark had come. Hearing her cry, Karl rose and approached her. She heard his footsteps, and started to her feet. Karl spoke "Do not be frightened," he said. "Let me see you home. I will walk behind you." "Who are you?" she rejoined. "Karl Wolkenlicht." "I have heard of you. Thank you. I can go home alone."
"Meantime, the condition of things in the painter's household continued much the same for Wolkenlicht work all day; no communication between the young people; the dinner and the wine; silent reading when work was done, with stolen glances many over the top of the book, glances that were never returned; the cold good-night; the locking of the door; the wakeful night and the drowsy morning.
She knew in a moment what it meant; but not a word was uttered about the matter, and the name of Karl Wolkenlicht seemed to be entirely forgotten.
But Teufelsbuerst laughed like the sound of a saw, and said: "Follow out the analogy, my Lilith, and you will see that man is like the corn that springs again after it is buried; but unfortunately the only result we know of is a vampire." Wolkenlicht looked up, and saw a shudder pass through the frame, and over the pale thin face of the painter. This he could not account for.
Above all, how was it that Karl Wolkenlicht had, in fact, fallen in love with her before ever he saw her? It was thus "Her father was a painter. Belonging thus to the public, it had taken the liberty of re-naming him. Every one called him Teufelsbuerst, or Devilsbrush. It was a name with which, to judge from the nature of his representations, he could hardly fail to be pleased.
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