knots of ribbon. 'I've brought some water.'

In his withered, knotted fingers, he clutched a long bottle neck.

'But meanwhile Emil will die!' cried the girl, and holding out her
hand to Sanin, 'O, sir, O _mein Herr_! can't you do something for
him?'

'He ought to be bled--it's an apoplectic fit,' observed the old man
addressed as Pantaleone.

Though Sanin had not the slightest notion of medicine, he knew one
thing for certain, that boys of fourteen do not have apoplectic fits.

'It's a swoon, not a fit,' he said, turning to Pantaleone. 'Have you
got any brushes?'

The old man raised his little face. 'Eh?'

'Brushes, brushes,' repeated Sanin in German and in French. 'Brushes,'
he added, making as though he would brush his clothes.

The little old man understood him at last.

'Ah, brushes! _Spazzette_! to be sure we have!'

'Bring them here; we will take off his coat and try rubbing him.'

'Good ... _Benone_! And ought we not to sprinkle water on his head?'