terrible
journey.

They had had the carriage closed, but the cold grey forced its way
in notwithstanding. It penetrated through all the crevices, through the
window-panes, filled the space inside so that their faces swam in the
damp twilight like pale spots, and laid itself heavily, obstructively
on their breath.

Kate coughed and then trembled. There was no joy in her heart now,
all she felt was terror, terror on account of the possession she had
had to fight so hard to obtain. If the mother were to come after them
now--oh, that terrible woman with the glittering axe. She closed
her eyes tightly, full of a horror she had never felt the like to
before--oh, she could not see it again! And still she opened her eyes
wide once more, and felt the cold perspiration on her brow and her
heart trembling--alas, that sight would pursue her even in her dreams.
She would not get rid of it until her last hour--never, never
again--she would always see that woman with the glittering axe.

It had whizzed close past her head--the draught of air caused by it
had made the hair on her temples tremble. It had done nothing to her,
it had only buried itself in the door-post with a loud noise, splitting
it. And still she had come to harm. Kate pressed both her hands to her
temples in horror: she would never, never get rid of that fear.

Her heart was filled with an almost superstitious dread, a dread as
though of a ghost that haunted the place. Let them only get away from
there, never to return. Let them only destroy every trace as they went
along. That woman must never know where they had gone. She knew
it was to Berlin--they had unfortunately given the vestryman their
address--but Berlin was so far away, the woman from the Venn would
never come there.

And the Venn itself? Ugh! Kate looked out into the grey mist,
trembling with horror. Thank God, that would remain behind, that would
soon be forgotten again. How could she ever have considered this
desolate Venn beautiful? She could not understand it. What charm was
there about these inhospitable plains, on which nothing could grow
except the coarse grass and tough heather? On which no corn waved its
spikes, no singing-bird piped its little song, no happy people lived
sociably; where there was, in short, no brightness, no loud tones, only
the silence of the dead and crosses along the road. It was awful
there.

"Paul, let us leave to-day--as quickly as possible," she jerked out,
full of