The light flickered along the road toward them. In the course of a few minutes it fell on the stricken cottage, on the starosta standing in the road, on Steinmetz in the door-way.
“Herr Steinmetz, is that you?” asked a voice, deep and musical, in the darkness.
“Zum Befehl,” answered Steinmetz, without moving.
Catrina came up to him. She was clad in a long dark cloak, a dark hat, and wore no gloves. She brought with her a clean aromatic odor of disinfectants. She carried the lantern herself, while behind her walked a man-servant in livery, with a large basket in either hand.
“It is good of you,” she said, “to come to us in our need—also to persuade the good doctor to come with you.”
“It is not much that we can do,” answered Steinmetz, taking the small outstretched hand within his large soft grasp; “but that little you may always count upon.”
“I know,” she said gravely.
She looked up at him, expecting him to step aside and allow her to pass into the cottage; but Steinmetz stood quite still, looking down at her with his pleasant smile.
“And how is it with you?” he asked, speaking in German, as they always did together.
She shrugged her shoulders.