Without knowing, he had let go his grip, and Gudrun had
fallen to her knees. Must he see, must he know?
A fearful weakness possessed him, his joints were turned to water. He
drifted, as on a wind, veered, and went drifting away.
'I didn't want it, really,' was the last confession of disgust in his
soul, as he drifted up the slope, weak, finished, only sheering off
unconsciously from any further contact. 'I've had enough--I want to go
to sleep. I've had enough.' He was sunk under a sense of nausea.
He was weak, but he did not want to rest, he wanted to go on and on, to
the end. Never again to stay, till he came to the end, that was all the
desire that remained to him. So he drifted on and on, unconscious and
weak, not thinking of anything, so long as he could keep in action.
The twilight spread a weird, unearthly light overhead, bluish-rose in
colour, the cold blue night sank on the snow. In the valley below,
behind, in the great bed of snow, were two small figures: Gudrun
dropped on her knees, like one executed, and Loerke sitting propped up
near her.
Pages:
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981