e wall told him
all sorts of things that he didn't need to know and overwhelmed him
with unnecessary impressions. He closed his eyes; but still he found
no rest. It seemed to him as if he were being swept away to take part
in that entertainment that the night-wind gave the moon. Everything
was turning round and round, taking him along. He seized his head in
both hands, as if he would stop his imagination by main strength; but
it was useless. The curtains, the cords, the wall, the flowers, the
dance, the whirlwind that tore Femke away--his efforts to hold her----

The boy burst into tears. He knew that it was all imagination; he
knew that he was sick; he knew that chimneys don't dance, and that
girls are not blown to the moon; and yet----

Weeping he called Femke's name softly, not loud enough to be heard
by the others, but loud enough to relieve his own depression.

"What's that?" he cried suddenly. "Does she answer? Is that
imagination, too?"

Actually, Walter heard his name called, and it was Femke's voice!

"I must know whether I'm dreaming, or not," he said, and straightened
himself up in bed. "That is a red flower, that is a black one, I am
Walter, Laurens is a printer's apprentice--everything is all right;
and I'm not dreaming."

He leaned out of bed and listened again, his mouth and eyes as wide
open as he could get them, as if the senses of taste and sight were
going to reinforce that of hearing.

"O, God! Femke's voice! Yes, yes, it is Femke!" He jumped out of bed,
ran out the door, and half ran, half fell down the steps.

To return to Femke for a little while. She had expected Walter at
the bridge the next day after the story of the sun-worshipers. At
first she thought that Walter was waiting till he could borrow from
Stoffel the book with the picture showing Aztalpa embracing the two
brothers. She wanted to see Walter with the picture; now she would have
been satisfied with him without the picture. It couldn't be the boy's
person, she thought--such a child!--but he did recite so well. Perhaps
in the heart of the girl Walter and his recitals had already coalesced.

"Put the clothes in the sun," cried her mother; and Femke translated
that: Sun--Peru--Aztalpa--Kusco--Walter.

"Run those fighters away; they'll throw dirt on the clothes."

Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the
country--the noblest tribe of the Incas--Telasco--Walter.

Everything seemed to be calling for Walt