"I rushed to my son.
"'He is not dead,' said I. 'O Marcus, you have saved him!—have you not? He is not dead? Will he recover?'
"'Madame,' said he, 'do not flatter yourself,'—and he spake with a strange firmness. 'I know not what may be the result. Take courage, however, whatever may betide. Help me, and forget yourself.'
"I need not tell you what care we took to restore Albert. Thank Heaven there was a stove in the room, at which we warmed him.
"'See,' said I to Marcus, 'his hands are warm.'
"'Marble may be heated,' was his unpromising reply. 'That is not life. His heart is inert as a stone.'
"Terrible hours rolled by in this expectation and despair. Marcus knelt with his ear close to my son's heart. His face betokened sad distress when he found there was not the slightest index of life. Exhausted and trembling, I dared not say one word or ask one question. I examined Marcus's terrible brow. I was at one time afraid to look at him, as I fancied I had read the first sentence.
"Zdenko played with Cynabre in a corner, and continued to sing. He sometimes paused to tell us that we annoyed Albert; that we must let him sleep; that he had seen him so for weeks together; and that he would awaken of himself. Marcus suffered greatly from this assurance, in which he could not confide. I had faith in it, and was inspired by it. The madman had a celestial inspiration, an angelic certainty of the truth. At length I saw an involuntary movement in Marcus's iron face. His corrugated brow distended, his hand trembled, as he prepared himself for a new act of courage. He sighed deeply, withdrew his ear, and placed his hand over my son's heart, which perhaps beat. He tried to speak, but restrained himself, for fear, it may be, of the chimerical joy it would inspire me with, leaned forward again, and suddenly rising and stepping back, fell prostrate, as if he were dying.
"'No more hope?' said I, tearing my hair.
"'Wanda,' said Marcus in a stifled voice, 'your son is alive!'