“Stahl,” I whispered, leaning towards him and indicating Bozevsky, “tell me—how do you think he is?”
Stahl did not answer. He seemed not to have heard me, but to be absorbed in some mysterious physical suffering of his own.
“What is the matter, Stahl? What is the matter? You are frightening me.”
With a nervous twist of his lips intended for a smile Stahl got up and began to walk up and down the room. His breath was still short and hurried. He drew the air through his teeth like one who is enduring spasms of pain.
Then he began to talk to himself in a low voice. “I can wait,” he said under his breath. “I can wait a little longer. Yes—yes—yes, I can wait a little longer.”
Bozevsky had opened his eyes and was watching him.
Horror held me motionless and shivers ran like icy water down my spine.
“Stahl, Stahl, what is the matter?” I said, and began to cry.
Stahl seemed not to hear me. He continued to walk up and down muttering to himself: “I can wait, I can wait. Just a little longer—a little longer—”
Bozevsky groaned. “Tell him to keep still,” he said, his gaze indicating Stahl.