"We'll find him, by and by—only come on now."
In silence the two children drifted out over the still, black water, which here and there bubbled past a floating log, or a barrel. Everything was mysterious. It was pitch dark, and there was no wind. The reeds, even, scarcely sighed. Keesje whined, complainingly, not liking the cold.
"But who is Markus, Marjon? Do you know?"
"You must not ask that, Jo. You must trust him. I do."
Then they heard a dull, fitfully throbbing sound that slowly drew nearer from the distance, and Johannes saw red and white lanterns ahead of them.
"A steamboat!" he cried. "What are we going to do now?"
"Sing!" said Marjon, without a moment's hesitation.
The boat came very gradually, and Johannes saw in the rear of her a long file of little lights, like a train of twinkling stars. It was a steam-tug with a heavy draught of Rhine-boats. It seemed to be panting and toiling with its burden, against the powerful current.
They stayed a boat's length away from the tug, but its long, unwieldy train—swinging out in a great curve at the rear—came nearer and nearer.
Marjon took her guitar and began to sing, and suddenly, with the sound of lapping water and throbbing engines, the music was ringing out in the still night—exquisite and clear. She sang a well-known German air, but with the following words: