He had opened his eyes, and turned a wondering look from one face to another, as if surprised at the excitement he saw on every countenance.
"What has happened?" he asked in a low, but perfectly clear voice, whilst a slight flow of blood still came from his lips. "I have had a bad, bad dream,--I thought I was dying."
His eyes closed again.
The surgeon raised the pillows that supported his head, gently took his hand from Helena, and examined his pulse.
"A glass of wine," he cried.
Fritz Deyke hurried away, and returned in a moment with a glass of old dark red wine.
The surgeon held it to his patient's lips. He drank it eagerly to the last drop.
In trembling anxiety they all awaited the result. Helena's face was as pale as marble; her soul lay in her eyes.
After a short time a tinge of colour came to von Wendenstein's cheek, a deep sigh heaved his breast, and he opened his eyes.
They rested on Helena, and a smile passed over his face.