“Let them all come!”

“To send them back again?”

“No, to witness my marriage.”

“And who’s the bridegroom?”

“Somebody all of you have forgotten.”

“No,” said Doome, “I never forget a soul.”

“Do you remember the poor sailor-boy Daniel?”

“I never saw him,” said Doome.  “No, friend sailor, you need not squeeze my hand,—­I never did see him.”

“Well, he has grown a man, and has come home.”

“Then,” said Jodoque, “I suppose I may go home.”

“Come home?—­where is he?—­Still, my sailor friend, I can’t tell why you should tremble.”

“Yes, he has come home; and if he will have me, I will marry him.”

“And he’ll have a good wife, Bertha,” said the sailor, and he made a movement as though about to run to the girl; but little Doome, too impulsive to think about the Fraeulein Grundei, enthusiastically clasped the arms of her friend’s eulogizer.

“Yes,—­marry him!—­and at this moment he is in that room!  And now any one of you may open the door.”

“Open the door?—­I’ll smash the door!” said the sailor, roughly pushing the girl away from him.  “So, Daniel is there, is he?  Well, let him come!”

He ran up to the door, threw it open, and there, standing just within, was the young French prisoner of war.

“Good morning, all!” he said.

“You are Daniel, are you?” said the sailor, drawing the other forward to the light.  “You are Daniel, are you?”

He dragged him near the window and looked quickly at him.  Then he turned pale himself, and wrung his hand.

“Yes!” said he, “yes!—­it is Daniel himself,—­the very Daniel!”

“Ah! so much the better!” said Doome.

“Daniel? the very Daniel?” said Bertha, faintly, and turned paler yet.

“I know you, comrade,” said the sailor, aside,—­“I know you.  You are the French officer who has escaped, but I’m down in your log for a lump of gratitude; and so, you are Daniel.  When a fellow saves you from a shark, perhaps you’ll be as willing to give him your name.”

“And why am I to take your name?”

“To give it to Bertha, there!”

“Give it to Bertha?”

“Yes!  Sign the contract, which the burgomaster has in his pocket; sign it as Daniel;—­’tis your only chance.  And when you are gone, I have paid my debt.  And don’t let us cross each other again.  You gave me my life, but that is no reason you should rob me of my wife!”

“Rob you of your wife?”

“Yes, of Bertha, who loved me six years ago!”

“Why, she has barely known me six hours!”

“True, but she loves you six times as much as she does the memory of Daniel!”

“But I do not care for her, beyond gratitude for sheltering me from pursuit.”

“Oh, she has enough love for two of you!”

“Well, to me, one wife or another,—­and she is a nice girl,—­and, friend Daniel, where shall we go?”