And, taking the arm of his comrade, who sighed and packed up his instruments, he led him out of the ward.
"What do you think of the way they have fixed me up, children?" asked Markus, cheerfully, as he took Marjon's flowers—with his left hand, because he could not move the other.
But neither Marjon nor Johannes could speak. They stood with trembling lips, swallowing back their tears. Then they sat down, one each side of the bed, and Marjon rested her forehead on his helpless hand.
Johannes held out to him the grapes, and tried to greet him in words; but he could not.
"Children," said Markus, gently, yet with a rebuke in his tones, "I notice that you cry altogether too much. Do you remember, Johannes, when you sat down in the street beside the scissors'-wheel, and how I reproved you? When one cries so readily, it looks as if the great sorrow of mankind were not felt. He who has once realized that, weeps no more over his own little troubles; for the greater grief should hold him bathed in tears, both day and night."
At these words the two controlled themselves in some degree, and Marjon said:
"But this is not a trifling thing that they have done to you."
"It is not a trifling thing that the world is so that this could happen. That is frightful; but it remains equally frightful whether this befell me or not. And that it has been done to me, and I have submitted, is cause for joyfulness, not for weeping."
Then said Johannes:
"But, dear Markus, what has it availed, and what will be the good of it? No one is sorry for it. No one will ever perceive the significance of it. No one, at this instant, has any further thought of you, nor of your words."