“Dearly. Father says He loved all children, and called them to Him.”
“Of course, of course!” replied the smith, blushing with shame for his own distrust.
The doctor did not follow the others, and as soon as his wife saw that they were alone, she beckoned to him.
Lopez sat down on the couch beside her, and took her hand. The slender fingers trembled in his clasp, and when, with loving anxiety, he drew her towards him, he felt the tremor of her delicate limbs, while her eyes expressed bitter suffering and terrible dread.
“Are you afraid?” he asked, tenderly.
Elizabeth shuddered, threw her arms passionately around his neck, and nodded assent.
“The wagon will convey us to the Rhine Valley, please God, this very day, and there we shall be safe,” he continued, soothingly. But she shook her head, her features assuming an expression of indifference and contempt. Lopez understood how to read their meaning, and asked: “So it is not the bailiffs you fear; something else is troubling you?”
She nodded again, this time still more eagerly, drew out the crucifix, which she had hitherto kept concealed under her coverlid, showed it to him, then pointed upward towards heaven, lastly to herself and him, and shrugged her shoulders with an air of deep, mournful renunciation.
“You are thinking of the other world,” said Lopez; then, fixing his eyes on the ground, he continued, in a lower tone: “I know you are tortured by the fear of not meeting me there.”
“Yes,” she gasped, with a great effort, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.