On the ship, no living creatures. At the wheel, the dead captain, his throat torn. The logbook. Plague! The drummer goes through the streets and spreads the news. Windows are closed. But the horror is not vanquished. It rages in the city. A man without hope chalks crosses on doors, the sign: no one lives here any longer.

Knock escapes from the madhouse. The anger of the masses turns on him.

In the book that Hutter has brought back from Transylvania, it is written: “Only when an innocent woman makes him forget the first crow of the cock will he disintegrate in the light.” Ellen knows: it is not the Plague. In the ruin across the street it crouches, and every night its eyes stare across at her.…

In the night she comes to a decision. Sends her husband away. Opens the window. Watches it approach. It seizes her. Hands claw her body. Hour upon hour passes: the unholy bliss of devils. Suddenly, outside, the first crow of the cock. The ghastly hands try to free themselves. But she entwines herself more tightly around her tormentor. And there: the sun!

The horror rises up. Its limbs writhe and dissolve. It disintegrates in the light.

In its place, a pestilential mist, which itself disperses.

In the little room, the sun breaks through. “The knowing person has conquered the incomprehensible, at terrible cost.”

Once again, the cozy corner in the little apartment belonging to the young pair. They have been sitting the entire night bent over the book, shaken by the tragedy unrolling there before them. The morning is already dawning!

Both stare with unseeing eyes, dread in their expressions. But the husband gathers his courage and hurries to the window. Opens it! The young day gilds the crooked gables of the town!

“Come, my love, let us enjoy the light—!” With a single motion he takes the book and brooch and flings both emphatically out the window. They embrace.

Life has claimed them again!

He spent a few minutes dealing with his despair at the amount of work still to be done. A few moments seemed inspired. Others seemed wrongheaded. Films born in the head expired on paper, only to be revived in the shooting and editing, like those Oriental paper flowers that bloom when placed in water.

It was five-thirty. Below, in the kitchen, the teapot whistled faintly.

He had breakfast with The History of Witchcraft. Frau Reger served, with an occasional glance at the illustrations. Her expression was that of a nanny who’d found her charge sitting in his own waste. Spiess remained asleep.

Murnau was getting ready to leave when Spiess finally stirred. He usually made large, groaning sounds. It brought to mind animals at a water hole.