The old woman gave her a glance over her spectacles: "Seven—ten!" she repeated, "If it were your spirit, Fräulein, you would be Samson himself; but your body—" She shook her head: "Na, when the master comes, ask him yourself. It is he who has talked with the Doctor, not I."
"He is coming now," said Kaya. "I hear his step on the stairs, quick and firm like his beat. Don't you hear it, Marta?—Now he has stopped and is talking with the miller." She leaned back on the pillows and her eyes watched the door.
"Eh, Fräulein! Nein, I hear nothing! What an ear you have—keen as a doe's when the wind is towards her! At home, in the forest, where the deer run wild and they come in the dawn to the Schneide to graze—whischt! The crackle of a leaf and they are off flying, with their muzzles high and their eyes wild. Na! I hear nothing but the wheel below grinding and squeaking, and the splash of the water."
"He is coming up the stairs," cried Kaya, "Open the door for him, Marta, and let the Kapellmeister in."
The old woman rolled up her knitting slowly: "It was just at the turn of the chain," she grumbled, "and I have lost a stitch in the counting. The master can come in by himself."
Kaya gave a gleeful laugh like a child, and slipped her feet to the floor: "Oh, you cross Marta, you dear humbug!" she cried, "As if you wouldn't let the master walk over you and never complain! Go on with that wonderful muffler of his, and I will let him in myself. No, don't touch me! Let me go alone and surprise him."
She steadied herself with her hand to the bed-post, then caught at the chair: "Don't touch me—Marta! I am quite strong—now, and able to—walk!"
A knock came on the door, and she made a little run forward and opened it, clinging to the handle.
"Du himmlische Güte!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "If the bird isn't trying its wings! Behüte, child!" He put a strong arm about her, looking down at her sternly and shaking his head: "Do you call this obedience?" he said grimly, "I thought I told you not to leave that couch alone—eh?"
"Don't scold me," said Kaya, "I feel so well to-day, and there is something leaping in my throat. Herr Kapellmeister—it is begging to come out; let me try to sing, won't you?" She clung to his arm and her eyes plead with him: "Don't scold me. You have put 'Siegfried' off twice now because you had no bird. Let me try to-day."