The street grew empty, and the Eletto's mother was only followed by a few of her son's friends; no priest led the procession.

In the cemetery Ulrich threw three handfuls of earth into the open grave, then with drooping head returned home.
How dreary, how desolate the bright, flower-decked room seemed now, for the first time the Eletto felt really deserted.

No tears came to relieve his grief, for the insult offered him that day aroused his wrath, and he cherished it as if it were a consolation.
He had thrown power aside with the staff of command.

Power! It too was potter's trash, which a stone might shatter, a flower in full bloom, whose leaves drop apart if touched by the finger! It was no noble metal, only yellow mica! The knocker on the door never stopped rapping.

One officer after another came to soothe him, but he would not even admit his lieutenant.
He rejoiced over his hasty deed.