big fireflies. "I must see double," he said, "the fireflies can be in my brain only."
Suddenly he heard voices, calling, crying out, lamenting.
Torches moved to and fro on the river bank, their red tongues of flame blown by the wind amid clouds of smoke. In the uncertain light he could at last distinguish figures rushing about, others leaning over the river, black as well. This explained everything: the lamps had not moved, but he had been misled by the flitting torches.
"Let us fetch Dolf Jeffers," cried two men. "No one else will be able to do it."
"Here is Dolf Jeffers," cried the good fellow at that moment, "what do you want?"
He recognized the men; they were his friends, his fellow-workers, boatmen, like himself. All surrounded him, gesticulating. An old man, wizened as a dried plaice, tapped him on the shoulder, and said:
"Dolf, for God's sake! A fellow-creature is being drowned. Help! Perhaps it 's already too late. Strip off your clothes, Dolf."
Dolf looked at the water, the lanterns, the night above him, and the men who urged him on.
"Comrades," he cried, "before God, I cannot. Riekje is in labor and my life is not my own."
"Dolf! Help!" cried the old man again, as
