In the busy sewing-room the two children are standing up on one of the tables. The commandant has an arm around each of them, for they are a little frightened by so much noise and so many eyes looking at them. The chatter dies down, as he speaks in his gruff authoritative voice, but with a twinkle in his eyes, rather like a middle-aged Santa Claus.
“Look here! I've got two fine babies.”
A titter runs through the room.
“Ja, Men'eer,” says one of the women, “congratulations! They are lievelingen—darlings!”
“Silence!” growls the commandant amiably. “None of your impudence, you women. Look here! These two children—I want somebody to adopt them, or at least to take care of them. I will pay for them. Their names are Hendrik and—”
A commotion at the lower end of the room. A thin, dark little woman is standing up, waving her piece of sewing like a flag, her big eyes flaming with excitement.
“Stop!” she cries, hurrying and stumbling forward through the crowd of women and girls. “Oh, stop a minute! They are mine—I lost them—mine, I tell you—lost—mine!”
She reaches the head of the table and flings her arms around the boy, crying: “My Hendrik!”
The boy hesitates a second, startled by the sudden wildness of her caress. Then he presses his hot little face in her neck.
“Lieve moeder!” he murmurs. “Where was you? I looked.”