Markus waked up and greeted his two loved ones. Then he looked at his neighbors, right and left, and asked:
"Have you been childish again, Sjaak? I heard you, indeed. No one is forever doomed, I tell you, neither you nor old Bram—if you take care from now on to drink water only, and not gin."
"I swear I will, Marrakus—swear it by God!" said Sjaak, striking himself on the breast.
"You cannot do that, Sjaak; neither would it help. After a half-glass of beer you will have forgotten all your vows."
"No beer, either," said Sjaak. "So help...."
"Be quiet now, Sjaak. Do not talk about it, but let it alone."
"Mar-r-akus," said Old Bram, in a hoarse, quaking voice, at the same time sitting up, with his griffin-like knuckles stretched out over the woollen covers, "tell me now, the honest truth: can it be possible for such a old hulk as me to escape eternal damnation? I'm shy of the priest, but I was brought up a Christian: and now that I can't get no booze here, I settle down in me bed o' nights with the jim-jams, and shake like an earthquake. But if I don't have to go to the devil, they can go to blazes with their bloomin' damnation! They can use their fires to dry the shirts of the angels, or to bake butter-cakes!—it's all the same to me."
"Listen, my man," said Markus, kindly. "I am going to speak to you from my heart. Will you believe me?"
"That I will, Marrakus," replied the old man, seriously, holding up a withered talon.
"When I stand before the Father above—if He let me into heaven—I shall say, I will not enter in until Old Bram also is redeemed from hell—even if he be the very last one."