"No matter," said the Liptaka, shaking her head; "it's what we poor people call a sweetheart. But never mind; come he must and he will, though the darkness of Egypt were on the heath."
"I am sure he will come," said Vilma, trembling. "Akosh is so bold! he knows not what danger is; but it is that which frightens me. The night is dark; and how easily can he have met with an accident!"
"The night is indeed dark," replied the Liptaka, with great earnestness; "but are not God's eyes open in the darkness? Not a sparrow falls from the roof without His will, and He protects the righteous on their paths. Fear nothing, missie sweet!" added the old woman: "young Mr. Rety is in no danger. Perhaps he will suffer from the cold; but the fire of your eyes will warm him soon enough. A sorry thing it would be, indeed, if such a fellow could not manage to ride from Dustbury to Tissaret. Ay, indeed, if he were a fine gentleman, as the others are: but no! Akosh is a jewel of a lad. I eat his soul.[16] I suckled him when a child, and I ought to know what stuff he is made of."
[16] See [Note XII].
"Oh, Liptaka, I wish he were here!" whispered Vilma, while her mother walked to the other room. "I am so afraid." And the Liptaka replied in the same tone: "I, too, should be sorry to see your mother go to the kitchen. There are others who have come from a longer journey, and who dare not enter until Mr. Rety is here."
"For God's sake!" said Vilma, "is Viola here?"
The Liptaka's reply was prevented by the appearance of Akosh. To attempt a description of Vilma's joy would be a vain endeavour. No word in any language can convey to those who never felt the like, any idea of the deep, heartfelt happiness which was expressed in her gestures and face, and in the tone with which, calling out her mother's name and that of her lover, she hurried the new comer into the next room.
The old nurse left the room by the opposite door. "Now for Viola," muttered she; "for he, too, loves his wife. Why, old fool that I am! my eyes have got full of tears in looking at the children! I can't help it; but I must think of my own Jantshy, and how I loved him, and how happy we were; and now the poor fellow is buried in France. It is written, Man shall not sever what God has brought together; but, for all that, the magistrates took Jantshy from me, and made him a soldier."
She was roused from these cogitations by a low voice, calling her name.
"Who's there?" said the old woman.