The sixth little girl had some difficulty getting her hand into the urn, she was trembling so, poor thing! but at last the figure appeared.
"Two!" exclaimed the president, sinking back in his chair, quite breathless with emotion.
"Nine thousand six hundred and seventy two!" proclaimed one of the directors, in a loud voice.
This was the number of Ole Kamp's ticket, now in Sandgoist's possession. Everybody was aware of this fact, and of the manner in which the usurer had obtained it; so there was a profound silence instead of the tumultuous applause that would have filled the hall of the University if the ticket had still been in Hulda Hansen's hands.
And now was this scoundrel Sandgoist about to step forward, ticket in hand, to claim the prize?
"Number 9672 wins the prize of one hundred thousand marks!" repeated the director. "Who claims it?"
"I do."
Was it the usurer of Drammen who answered thus?
No. It was a young man—a young man with a pale face, whose features and whole person bore marks of prolonged suffering, but alive, really and truly alive.
On hearing this voice, Hulda sprung to her feet, uttering a cry that penetrated every nook and corner of the large hall; then she fell back fainting.