"And if the house were mine," said the sailor, suiting the action to the word, "why, I'd go up to the door like this,--and I'd put my hand on the latch, and click it should go,--and--" Bertha ran up to the door too, laid her hand upon the sailor's arm, and drew him away, as he quite willingly let her. Indeed, he trembled and looked pleadingly at her, as she touched him; and he murmured to himself, "Six years make a good deal of change." "You, a guest, have no right to touch that door." "If I were your husband, I should have." "Surely,--but you are not." "Yes, but this honest man here is as good as your husband." "No!" "No?" said the other three; and Jodoque, but for presence of mind, might have overthrown the big jug of beer. "No,--for, truly, I'm not going to marry Jodoque." "Not going to marry me?" "Not going to marry him?--Why, as sure as you call me Doome, there are the townsfolk, and the musicians, and the good father, and the burgomaster, all with their faces already turned this way, I would wager these new ribbons of mine!" "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 Fräulein 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."