“Franz, dear!” she cried, “what is it? Are you hurt, my love? Are you hurt?”
She put her cool palm against his forehead, and kneeling beside him slipped an arm around his neck. She felt him tremble as though every nerve and muscle in his body were wrenched and torn.
As she clung to him a chill stole into her own heart. She, too, could only crouch and cower and shudder.
Finally he spoke in strange hushed accents. “Margaret, I can't see! It is all black—black as night in front of me!”
She pressed close in his arms, and with her little hand she chafed his brow where the red line burned and stung.
He stood erect once more and slowly turned about as if in quest of something.
“Margaret, how does the light come? Is it there?” He faced the wall—the window at his back.
She had moved with him, her glance fastened upon his eyes.
They were fixed in a stony glare.
“Where is the window?” he asked appealingly.