"It is Keller's Käthchen!" cried the children. "Ah, our dear little Käthchen!"
Some crowded about Johannes, others ran to the church to call the parents. Johannes tenderly bound up the child's bleeding forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, and carefully drew off its thick jacket to examine the shoulder-joint, that seemed to be broken.
The Worronska devoured the scene with envious eyes. She saw him only,--the grace of his motions, the tender care that he lavished upon the child,--and, like molten lava, the words burst from her lips, "Oh that I were that child!"
Johannes did not even hear her.
"The arm must go," he said sadly. "The best that you can do. Countess Worronska, is to drive to town as quickly as you can and send out Professor Kern or some other skilful surgeon."
"Möllner," she implored, "I cannot go until you have forgiven me!"
"I pray you make haste, madame. Your first duty is to do what you can for the child; and I am afraid you will suffer from any delay, for there come the enraged peasants."
Like bees disturbed in their hive, a menacing, murmuring throng came flocking out of the church, and in a minute surrounded the strangers.
"What has happened?"
"Who is hurt?"