Nevertheless he felt an insuperable aversion to appealing to the courts. The picture of his father, as he had seen him the last time alive, stood out vividly in his memory; the ostracised baron, who had been bold enough to seek the aid of the law, had then found every door closed in his face. Truly Prussia at that time was not itself. The walls of the State were tottering to their foundations, and the rats were having it all their own way. But what guarantee was there that the son of such a father would find the ear of justice less deaf to his appeal? The law had shifts and resources in plenty by which an unpopular person could be rendered powerless to benefit by its help, and he did not doubt that he would fall a victim to such casuistry. His deserted and forlorn position so distorted his view of things that law and order took the form of wild beasts lying on the drawbridge in ambush for their prey. Even his military duties had no interest for him now. Lieutenant Baumgart was on the list of killed. Why trouble the authorities with the work of his resurrection? They would not thank him for it.
A text from the Bible came into his mind: "His hand shall be against every man, and every man's hand against him." The curse that accompanied Hagar's son through life, he by dint of stubborn defiance would turn into a blessing.
Weeks went by, but he hardly observed the flight of time. He sat immersed day after day in his papers, wandering forth of an evening to stumble about the ruins, or to take a walk in the overgrown park. There was only one place he carefully avoided. That was the path which led to the Cats' Bridge. When he chanced to find himself nearing it, his heart beat quicker, and he would hurry breathlessly by the shrubs that concealed it from view. Yet he was tormented by a grim desire to stand on the scene of the disaster, a desire which at length became almost irrepressible.
It was one evening towards the end of September when, for the first time since his return home, the moon was full. He roamed restlessly in the glades of the park, the dry leaves rustled at his feet, and the autumn wind shook the branches of the trees. The moonbeams shimmered on the grass like flocks of white sheep. Before him the shrubs rose in a dark, jagged line of wall. An impulse of sinister curiosity suddenly got the better of the superstitious repugnance that had hitherto held him back, and he plunged through the thicket that, with a sort of protecting air, hid the path. The descent to the river was steep, almost perpendicular, and the mirror-like surface of the water was entirely concealed by alder-bushes. A faint rippling and splashing below fell mysteriously on his ear. From the top of the precipice a railed plank shot boldly out into mid-air. A rude scaffolding, planted firmly in the rock of the precipice, supported it with iron bars. On the opposite bank the trunk of a giant oak formed the support. In the middle there was a yawning gap of from ten to twelve feet. Like two arms longingly outstretched but never meeting, the planks branched forth on either side above the abysmal depths.