“The boy is weak in the upper story,” affirmed Mrs. Goremest. “He’s been bellowing around her the whole evening like a calf, and he hasn’t spent a doit.”
Walter reached for Femke’s hand; and then he noticed how curiously she was rigged out. She was completely covered. Of her head, face, shoulders, figure—nothing was to be seen. Mrs. Goremest had contributed her cloak; but what would one not do for a Kopperlith? Still, she was saving: Only the stump of one tallow candle was burning. It flickered strangely, giving to everything a ghostly appearance.
“Is it you, Erich?” the girl asked.
“Femke, Femke, for God’s sake, don’t go with those strange men!”
Tearing himself away from Verlaan, he threw himself at Femke’s feet. He pulled aside her cloak and covered her hand with tears and kisses.
“Just like I tell you,” declared Mrs. Goremest. “The boy is as crazy as a bedbug.”
“Femke, I will never deny you again. Strike me, tread on me, kill me, but—don’t go with those strange men.”
“Light!” cried the girl peremptorily—a word that even a Dutchman understands.
The republican took the candle from the counter and held it so that the light fell on Walter’s face. The boy was still kneeling. Through an opening in her hood the girl looked down on him and was silent. She did not withdraw the hand that Walter held closely pressed to his lips.
Verlaan made a motion as if to remove the intruder; but the girl stopped him with a look. Then she laid her free hand on Walter’s head, saying simply: