"Here," thought the dreaming young man, "she slept the last night before the storm."
For Bertel this room was sacred; when he pressed his lips against the cold walls, he thought he kissed the marks of Regina's tears.
A wonderful thought struck him like lightning. If the nun that visited them yesterday was a princess ... if the white hand belonged to Regina! It would be a miracle, but ... love believes in miracles. Bertel's heart beat fast.
His neglected wounds had greatly improved under the gentle hands of his nurse. He now felt much stronger. His unfortunate comrades were still asleep after their terrible journey. Then the door was quietly opened, and the nun softly entered with a drink for the wounded prisoners. Bertel felt his head swim. Overcome by his violent emotions, he fell on his knees before her.
"Your name, you kind angel, who remembers the prisoners!" he cried. "Tell me your name, let me see your face ... Ah! I should have known you amongst thousands ... you are Regina, yourself!"
"You make a mistake," said the same kind voice that Bertel had heard the day before. It was not Regina's voice, and still he knew the tones. To whom then did it belong?
Bertel rushed forward and pulled the veil from the nun's head. In front of him stood the beautiful mild Ketchen with a smiling face. The surprised Bertel drew back.
"Imprudent one," she said, covering her face with her hands. "I wished to have you in my care, but now you make me leave the place to another."
Ketchen disappeared. On the evening of the same day another nun entered the room.
Larsson addressed a long speech to her, and put her hand to his lips, and impressed on it a loud kiss. He then swore fearfully.