Yes, she was not mistaken.

That cry of terror must proceed from her friend's mouth, and was followed by exclamations of grief from bearded lips and loud sobs.
Evil tidings must have reached her host's house, and the woman weeping so impetuously below was probably kind "Babetta." Anxiety drove her from her bed.

On the little table beside it, amid several bottles and glasses, the lamp and the box of matches, stood the tiny bell, at whose faint sound one of her nurses invariably hastened in.

Henrica rang it three times, then again and again, but nobody appeared.

Then her hot blood boiled, and half from impatience and vexation, half from curiosity and sympathy, she slipped into her shoes, threw on a morning dress, went to the chair which stood on the platform in the niche, opened the window, and looked down at the groups gathered below.
No one noticed her, for the men who stood there sorrowing, and the weeping women, among whom were Maria and Barbara, were listening with many tokens of sympathy to the eager words of a young man, and had eyes and ears for him alone.