Can it be that Gretel and her mother have not stirred since we saw them last? That the sick man upon the bed has not even turned over? It was four days ago and there is the sad group just as it was before. No, not precisely the same, for Raff Brinker is paler; his fever is gone, though he knows nothing of what is passing. Then, they were alone in the bare, clean room. Now there is another group in an opposite corner.
Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young man who listens intently. The stout young man is his student and assistant. Hans is there also. He stands near the window respectfully waiting until he shall be accosted.
"You see, Vollenhoven," said Dr. Boekman, "it is a clear case of"—and here the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and Dutch that I cannot conveniently translate.
After a while, as Vollenhoven looked at him rather blankly, the learned man condescended to speak to him in simpler phrase.
"It is probably like Rip Donderdunck's case," he explained, in a low, mumbling tone. "He fell from the top of Voppelploot's windmill. After the accident the man was stupid, and finally became idiotic. In time he lay helpless like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, too, like him, and kept constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend Von Choppem performed an operation upon this Donderdunck, and discovered under the skull a small dark sac, which pressed upon the brain. This had been the cause of the trouble. My friend Von Choppem removed it—a splendid operation! You see according to Celsus"—and here the doctor again went off into Latin.
"Did the man live?" asked the assistant, respectfully.
Dr. Boekman scowled. "That is of no consequence. I believe he died, but why not fix your mind on the grand features of the case. Consider a moment how"—and he plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever.
"But, mynheer," gently persisted the student, who knew that the doctor would not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled at once from his favorite depths. "Mynheer, you have other engagements to-day, three legs in Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor up the canal."
"The tumor can wait," said the doctor reflectively. "That is another beautiful case—a beautiful case! The woman has not lifted her head from her shoulder for two months—magnificent tumor, sir!"
The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgotten where he was.