The room was very still. She could hear the old doctor breathe. She could almost hear the sparks as they fell into the ashes on the hearth. The mother's hand was very cold but a burning spot glowed on her cheek; and her eyes were like a deer's—so bright, so sad, so eager.
At last there was a movement upon the bed, very slight, but enough to cause them all to start; Dr. Boekman leaned eagerly forward.
Another movement. The large hand, so white and soft for a poor man's hand, twitched—then raised itself steadily toward the forehead.
It felt the bandage, not in a restless, crazy way, but with a questioning movement, that caused even Dr. Boekman to hold his breath. Then the eyes opened slowly.
"Steady! steady!" said a voice that sounded very strangely to Gretel. "Shift that mat higher, boys! now throw on the clay. The waters are rising fast—no time to——"
Dame Brinker sprang forward like a young panther.
She seized his hands, and leaning over him, cried, "Raff! Raff, boy, speak to me!"
"Is it you, Meitje?" he asked faintly—"I have been asleep, hurt, I think—where is little Hans?"
"Here I am, father!" shouted Hans half mad with joy. But the doctor held him back.
"He knows us!" screamed Dame Brinker. "Great God! he knows us! Gretel! Gretel! come, see your father!"