The answer came.
She turned toward Dr. Boekman.
"It is right, mynheer. I consent."
"Humph!" grunted the doctor, as if to say you've been long enough about it. Then he conferred a moment with his assistant, who listened with great outward deference but was inwardly rejoicing at the grand joke he would have to tell his fellow students. He had actually seen a tear in "old Boekman's" eye.
Meanwhile Gretel looked on in trembling silence—but when she saw the doctor open a leathern case, and take out one sharp, gleaming instrument after another, she sprang forward.
"Oh mother—the poor father meant no wrong. Are they going to murder him?"
"I do not know, child," screamed Dame Brinker looking fiercely at Gretel. "I do not know."
"This will not do, jufvrouw," said Dr. Boekman sternly, and at the same time he cast a quick, penetrating look at Hans—"you and the girl must leave the room. The boy may stay."
Dame Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes flashed. Her whole countenance was changed. She looked like one who had never wept, never felt a moment's weakness. Her voice was low but decided. "I stay with my husband, mynheer."
Dr. Boekman looked astonished. His orders were seldom disregarded in this style. For an instant his eye met hers.