Both out-of-doors, and below him, Johannes heard the women singing, and busily, merrily talking—the way women do mornings as they hurry with their kitchen and door-yard tasks. The rubbish of the day before was thrust aside, and everything was in readiness for a new Fair day.
Beside him lay his Guide, still calmly sleeping. He had removed nothing but his coat with which he had covered himself, and his shoes which were standing beside the mattress. He was in a profound sleep—his head upon his rolled-up mantle. His curling hair was now dry, and looked dark and glossy, and his cheeks bore a little more color. Johannes gazed attentively at his right hand hanging down from under his coat, over the mattress to the floor. It was a slender, shapely hand, with short-cut nails, but the blackening which Johannes had seen the day before was still there. That stamp of toil could not be washed away.
Johannes slipped quietly downstairs and went to wash himself at the pump in the courtyard. About him all was cheerful activity—scrubbing and scouring, washing and rinsing. The summer morning was warm and yet fresh. It was a clear and sober world with nothing dreamy or fanciful about it.
The bar-woman poured him out a cup of coffee, and asked in a familiar way if his roommate was still sleeping, and how Johannes had met him.
"Oh, just by chance!" answered Johannes, blushing deeply; not only because he was fibbing, but because it was to himself such a delicate and obscure matter, and of such supreme importance.
"Who is he, really?" he asked, with a feeling of committing treason.
"Who is he!" re-echoed the mistress, in such a loud voice and with such emphasis that the other women stopped their work and looked up. "Did you hear him? He asks who Markus is!"
"Do you mean Markus Vis?" asked a slatternly work-girl.
"Yes, that's who he means!" said the bar-woman.
The women looked at one another, and then went on again with their splashing and scrubbing.