Vollenhoven made another attempt.
"This poor fellow on the bed, mynheer. Do you think you can save him?"
"Ah, indeed, certainly," stammered the doctor, suddenly perceiving that he had been talking rather off the point—"certainly, that is—I hope so——"
"If any one in Holland can, mynheer," murmured the assistant with honest bluntness—"it is yourself."
The doctor looked displeased—growled out a tender request for the student to talk less, and beckoned Hans to draw near.
This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, especially on surgical matters. "One can never tell," he said, "what moment the creatures will scream or faint." Therefore he explained Raff Brinker's case to Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save the patient.
Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns, and throwing quick, anxious glances toward the bed.
"It may kill the father—did you say, mynheer?" he exclaimed at last, in a trembling whisper.
"It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will cure and not kill. Ah! if boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matter before you, but it would be of no use."
Hans looked blank at this compliment.