It seemed to me that a long time passed, during which I could not speak, but could only stand with my hands clasped over my heart, trying to steady its tumultuous beating. I had not been wrong, thank the good God above! I had not been wrong when my heart sung for joy at being once more in this land. He was here—he was living—he was safe!
Here were all my worst fears soothed—my intensest longings answered without my having spoken. It was now first that I really knew how much I loved him—so much that I felt almost afraid of the strength of the passion. I knew not till now how it had grown—how fast and all-denominating it had become.
A sob broke from my lips, and his voice was silenced.
“Herr Courvoisier!” I stammered.
“Who spoke?” he asked in a clear voice.
“It is you!” I murmured.
“May!” he uttered, and paused abruptly.
A hand touched mine—warm, firm, strong—his very hand. In its lightest touch there seemed safety, shelter, comfort.
“Oh, how glad I am! how glad I am!” I sobbed.
He murmured “Sonderbar!” as if arguing with himself, and I held his hand fast.