The words reached Hermann and he stumbled on blindly, his head dropped forward on his breast, his hands groping the way. The distance seemed interminable. Now he knew he was past the seats; now his feet touched the first step, and there were seven to climb to the altar. Would his feet never reach the top?
“One, two, three,” he counted to himself, then tripped and almost fell. “Four, five, six.” He was nearly there. There was but one more.
The murmur of shame died away and in its place rose one of wonder and awe. Soon the words became intelligible:
“The miracle! It is the miracle!”
The people knelt in the big cathedral; the bishop raised his hands in prayer. And the little clock-maker, stumbling to the last step, looked up through dim eyes and saw the Child leaning toward him, far down from Mary’s arms, with hands outstretched to take his gift.
That night, back in the kitchen of the lodge after supper, David told the story again to Johanna and Barney. And when he had finished he saw them looking strangely at each other.
“To think,” said Johanna, thoughtfully, “we’ve been living here for two years and we never got so much from the old man. And who’d have thought to find such a tale bundled up in an old bunch of heathen rags and language like him?”
“Maybe, now, he’s not a heathen at all,” laughed Barney.
And the others laughed with him.