the writing desk and again gives himself to painful memories. He seats himself on the cot, where the firstray of the morning sun finds him. He rises to meet it, but on his way to the window he pauses at the desk and plays with the lead. Finally he throws it aside in disgust, and goes to the window. There is tumult in the courtyard. The pump is squeaking, the gates are slamming, the horses are neighing, there is the noise of racks being fitted on to the wagons.
Bara enters with an armful of bedclothes, which she dumps on the bed. She utters a tired sigh of relief, sits a moment to rest, and then falls to making the bed. She ts emphatic in her effort to do the thing well. She thumps the pillow vigorously, wishing to attract Burris’s attention to herself. But he is too far away in spirit.)
Bara (Breaking out unexpectedly).—Let him who can stand such a life! My old bones say, this is too much. I am expected to stay up all night with two patients, Jesu Maria! And I might have had it easy now, if that boy . . . (She finishes by shaking her fist at an imaginary culprit somewhere in the neighborhood. Suddenly remembering, she crosses herself piously.) And now that old stick . . . for years he would not hear of any woman, and now he loses his eyes to that disgrace . . . they say—(Suddenly changing front). And would you believe it my lord,—the steward had to take the rope out of his hand to save him from hanging himself. And just because the hussy would not consent to take him on the dot. Now she had relented, and there is to be a wedding. I ought to send her in to wait on you, seeing how neatly you fixed her up with poor Tony’s four hundred gold pieces. (All this is more to herself than to him, as he does not listen to her.) The rascal says he is doing it for the sake of the little one . . . but I don’t know . . . I don’t know.
(Burris has been standing at the window facing the sun. Suddenly it hides behind a cloud. This seems to startle him out of his reverie.)
Burris.—Bara, listen! How is everything on the other side?
Bara.—You mean the gracious lady? So far it is all right, if only no infection sets in. And if it were not for the grief she feels. If she would only let some one take the babe out of her arms! But she holds on to it like grim death. The doctor tried to persuade her to let it go, but she fought like a tigress.
Burris.—A child? A babe? What do you mean?
Bara.—Is it possible that they have not told you? It was thanks to the doctor, and your bringing him. It came at halt past two. It would have been a fine boy.
