Her cry was answered. The door opened, and an old gentleman, with a rugged bronze face and white hair and moustache, entered.
It was Dr. Reiser. "Be quiet!" he ordered, for Miriam, at sight of him, had begun to cry much louder with joy than she had just done with despair. He looked at Judith, and turned away deeply moved. He had no need to ask who she was or what had happened. He rushed to the door, called to his coachman, who was waiting (for the doctor had been making a call on the magistrate on the floor above), for his case of medicines. He then bent his energies to bringing his patient out of her swoon. His only assistants were Miriam and the coachman; for old Sarah, who once looked through the open door, ran away timidly when Miriam called her.
At last Judith opened her eyes, but the doctor saw immediately that her mind was wandering. "My grave!" she shouted wildly, trying to free herself from the hands of her custodians. "I want my grave!"
Not until this paroxysm was over could the doctor carry her to his carriage. "Take her to me," begged Miriam. "I have a good bed and a warm room."
Dr. Reiser knew of no other refuge, for she would have been refused admittance both in Christian and Jewish hospitals; the nearness of Miriam's home to his own was an advantage. So he ordered the coachman to drive to Roskowska by the most direct route, which was past the castle.
"Curse him!" cried the old woman, as they passed the brilliantly lighted windows of the castle. "There he is, rioting with his friends. What does he care for his victim and her child?"
The doctor made no answer, but probably thought much the same. But they were mistaken. If any punishment could have been great enough to atone for his sin, surely he was suffering it now. He paced his study, tortured by all the furies of fear and remorse, and read a letter which had just arrived from Riva.
Hamia told of the occurrences of the past few days, and the disappearance of her mistress. How they had engaged neighbors to search the lake, when a driver from Mori brought them her farewell greetings, and the assurance to Jan that his loan should be repaid. "It is not for this, but because we are so anxious about our gracious mistress and the dear little boy, that we beg Monsieur le Comte to give us permission to go home."
Too late! the avalanche was already descending. Nothing could now be made good--nothing hid. She was coming home as his mortal enemy, to deliver him up to disgrace. Unable to control his emotions, he paced the room till his feet failed him, while his pale lips murmured ceaselessly, now aloud, now under his breath--"Too late! too late!"