But the other hand of the heap of humanity lay stretched far away from it, on the square of the trapdoor, as though wishing, in itself, to be a bolt to the door. The hand was not of flesh and bone. The hand was of metal, the hand was the masterpiece of Rotwang, the great inventor.
Maria threw a glance at the door, on which the seal of Solomon glowed. She ran up to it, although she knew it to be pointless to implore this inexorable door for liberty. She felt, under her feet, distant, quite dull, strong and impelling, a shake, as of distant thunder.
The voice of the great Metropolis roared: Danger—!
Maria clasped her hands and raised them to her mouth. She ran up to the trapdoor. She knelt down. She looked at the heap of humanity which lay at the edge of the trapdoor. She knelt down. She looked at the heap of humanity which lay at the edge of the trapdoor, the metal hand of which seemed obstinately to be defending the trapdoor. The fingers of the other hand, thrown over the man’s neck, were turned towards her, poised high, like a beast before the spring.
And the trembling shake again—and now much mightier—Maria seized the iron ring of the trapdoor. She pushed it up. She wanted to pull up the door. But the hand—the hand which lay upon it—held the door clutched fast.
Maria heard the chattering of her teeth. She pushed herself across on her knees towards the motionless heap of humanity. With infinite care, she grasped the hand which lay, as a steel bolt, across the trapdoor. She felt the coldness of death proceeding from this hand. She pressed her teeth into her white lips. As she pushed back the hand with all her strength, the heap of humanity rolled over on its side, and the grey face appeared, staring upwards …
Maria tore open the trapdoor. She swung herself down, into the black square. She did not leave herself time to close the door. Perhaps it was that she had not the courage, once more to emerge from the depths she had gained, to see what lay up there, at the edge of the trapdoor. She felt the steps under her feet, and felt, right and left, the damp walls. She ran through the darkness, thinking only half-consciously: If you lose your way in the City of the Dead …
The red shoes of the magician occurred to her …
She forced herself to stand still, forced herself to listen …
What was that strange sound which seemed to be coming from the passages round about? … It sounded like yawning—It sounded as though the stone were yawning. There was a trickling … above her head a light grating sound grew audible, as though joint upon joint were loosening itself … Then all was still for a while. But not for long. Then the grating sound began again …
The stone was living. Yes—the stone was living … The stones of the City of the Dead were coming to life.
The shock of extreme violence shook the earth on which Maria was standing. Rumbling of falling stones, trickling, silence.
Maria was pitched against the stone wall. But the wall moved behind her. Maria shrieked. She threw up her arms and raced onwards. She stumbled over stones which lay across her way, but she did not fall. She did not know what was happening but the rustle of mystery which the storm drives along before it—the proclamation of a great evil, hung in the air above her, driving her forward.
There—a light in front of her! She ran towards it. An arched vault … Great burning candles … Yes, she knew the place. She had often stood here and spoken to those whom she called “brothers.” … Who, but she, had the right to light these candles? For whom had they burnt today? The flames blew sideways in a violent draught of air; the wax dropped.
Maria seized a candle and ran on with it. She came to the background of the arched vault. A coat lay on the floor. None of her brothers wore such a coat over his blue linen uniform. She bent down. She saw, in the thousand-year-old dust of the arched vault, a trail of dark drops. She stretched out her hand and touched one of the drops. The tip of her finger was dyed red. She straightened herself up and closed her eyes. She staggered a little and a smile passed over her face as though she hoped she were dreaming.
“Dear God, I pray Thee, bide with me, take care of me … Amen …”
She leant her head against the stone wall. The wall quaked. Maria looked right up. In the dark, black vaulting of the stone roof above her, there gaped a winding cleft.
What did that mean … ?
What was there—above her?
Up there were the mole-tunnels of the underground railway. What was happening up there—? It sounded as though three thousand giants were playing ninepins with iron mountains, throwing them, one against the other, amid yells …
The cleft gaped wider. The air was filled with dust. But it was not dust. It was ground stone.
The structure of the City of the Dead quaked right down to the centre of the earth. It was as if a mighty fist had suddenly opened a sluice—but, instead of water, a maelstrom of stones hurtled from the dammed-up bed—blocks, mortar, crumbles, stone-splinters, ruins poured down from the arch—a curtain of stones—a hail of stones. And above the falling and the smashing was the power of a thunder which was roaring, and roaring long and resonantly, through the destruction.
A current of air, an irresistible whirl, swept the girl aside like a blade of straw. The skeletons rose up from the niches: bones rose up erect and skulls rolled! Doomsday seemed to be breaking over the thousand-year-old City of the Dead.
But above the great Metropolis the monster-voice was still howling and
