But how--with what golden harvest--she knew not.
And yet she marked Braun's trembling hands, the lines graven on his face, his deep potations, his fierce fever to reach the land.
And so, deep in her heart, she swore, "If he has harmed him, it is his life or mine!" Gazing out on the leaden surges of the ocean, she could see the face of her manly lover, the one man who had believed in her underlying womanhood.

There was no stain on the red roses worn on her breast for him; only truth in her gleaming Magyar eyes.

"He loved me, for what he saw in me--the innocent woman that I once was." And bitter tears mingled with the salt brine flashing by--the tears of a repentent magdalen.
Fritz Braun never knew that the woman who submitted to his caresses was a spirit of wrath.

Fool in his own conceit, he was yet watchful.
If she makes a single false move at Stettin, she seals her own fate, he darkly pledged his familiar demon.

And so, stealthily eying each other, the fugitive and his fascinating dupe neared the sandy dunes of the German Baltic land.
And yet God's wrath followed them.