Gerson Brandt went about his duties with a listless air. The boys who gathered every morning in the learning-school noticed that he was less exacting about their lessons, and that often his thoughts appeared far away. When he ascended to the little platform, after returning from morning prayers in the meeting-house, he looked down upon them with compassion in his glance. It was noticed that his thin face was pinched and that his eyes were sunken. When they opened their word-books for the spelling-class he showed slight interest. During recess he sat with his head resting on his hands and his eyes fixed on the old desk. One day, when he was even more preoccupied than usual, Adolph Schneider and Karl Weisel visited the school in order to inquire into the progress of the boys of Zanah. Gerson Brandt called his pupils to order.

“The Herr Doktor would speak with you,” he said.

“Yea, I would know whether you are diligent in your lessons,” announced Adolph Schneider. He pounded on the floor with his cane, and spoke in a tone that frightened the more timid of the children.

“Why was Adam cast out of the Garden of Eden?”

There was a moment of silence. All the tow-headed boys, with arms folded across their breasts, stared straight ahead of them. Karl Weisel, who had taken the school-master’s chair, tipped it back against the black-board, twirled his thumbs, and stared at the rows of benches with something like a sneer on his heavy features. The school-master, standing on the floor beside the platform, looked out of the nearest window and waited patiently for the tardy answer.

“Can any one tell me why Adam was cast out of the Garden of Eden?”

The Herr Doktor repeated his question in a thundering tone.

“Because he ate an apple,” piped a small voice from a far corner of the room.

“And art thou taught that it is wicked to eat an apple?”

A dozen tow-heads were shaken emphatically.

“The apple grew on the tree of knowledge.” It was a pale, red-haired child who spoke.

“It is Johann Werther who knows about the tree of knowledge,” said the Herr Doktor. “At the gasthaus Johann sometimes hath a glimpse of forbidden things.”

Scores of round eyes immediately were turned upon Johann with glances of envy.

“But did man fall through his own sinful desires?” questioned the Herr Doktor, standing very straight, throwing out his chest, and lifting his chin out of his big stock.

“It was Eve who did tempt him,” announced a small boy that sat on the front seat.

“Right. Sin came into the world through a woman, and ever since then the man who would reach heaven hath to guard against the wiles of the temptress. If it had not been for a woman, we might now be living in the Garden of Eden.”

“Nay, Brother Schneider, teach not that women are evil.” Gerson Brandt placed one thin hand on the desk and turned on the Herr Doktor a face in which was a determined look. “It is meet that thou shouldst tell the children how the world was saved through a woman, who was the mother of Christ.”

“Gerson Brandt, interrupt not this lesson. I have come here to measure the knowledge of those intrusted to thy care.” Adolph Schneider again pounded the floor with his cane. “Can the school tell me nothing more about Eve’s fall?” Adolph Schneider asked.

In the back part of the room rose the fool. He had in his hand one of the gourds that he always carried with him.

“The Bible teacheth us it was the serpent that did tempt Eve,” he said, studying the gourd as if he were reading from it.

“Ja, ja,” said the Herr Doktor; “but Eve, being a woman, was full of curiosity; she inclined her ear to the serpent.”

“And Adam did incline his ear to Eve,” the simple one announced. “It is said it is always thus. Even in the colony I have noticed that the men are keen, indeed, to hear what the women would say.”

Something like a smile flitted over Karl Weisel’s face. He brought his chair forward on its four legs, and listened for what was coming.

“Take thy seat. How darest thou comment on the men and women of Zanah? Thou art the simple one who cannot separate good from evil.”

The fool still stood in his place with the gourd in his hand.

“The fool hath ears that he can hear; he hath eyes that he can see.”

“But what he seeth and heareth hath not the right meaning to him.”

“The fool hath seen Karl Weisel, head of the thirteen elders, listen to the words of Gretchen Schneider, the daughter of the leader of Zanah,” declared the fool, still reading from his gourd.

“Silence!” shouted the Herr Doktor. Turning to Gerson Brandt, he said: “So the fool hath become a spy. He is more dangerous than a wise man.”

“The truth is not in him,” said Karl Weisel, springing to his feet. “Hans Peter should be kept in confinement where he cannot speak harmful things.”

“He meaneth nothing wrong,” said Gerson Brandt. “Be merciful to the simple one.”

“The main object in coming here to-day was to instruct you concerning the Untersuchung,” said Adolph Schneider, when Karl Weisel had resumed his seat and the children were once more gazing stolidly in front of them. “I hope you are all prepared to give an account of your souls when the elders of Zanah shall inquire into your spiritual condition. From now until the day when we hope to behold the inspiration of a new prophetess I want you all to think over your sins. I wonder how many of you have told a lie this week.” Every boy in the school looked guilty. “I should like to have all who have spoken only the truth stand up that I may see them.”

“Nay, ask not that,” said the school-master. “I fear lest the children be tempted to forget their shortcomings and to act a falsehood because they desire to appear well before thee.”

“Since the loss of thine illuminated Bible thou art tender-hearted towards liars,” said Karl Weisel, in an undertone.

“Thy taunt shouldst cost thee dear, Karl Weisel, were it not forbidden in Zanah that we should resent insult.” In an instant the gentle school-master was transformed. He stood erect, and the scorn in his tone made the head of the thirteen elders feel that the contempt of a righteous man was something not to be easily ignored. The Herr Doktor gave the boys no opportunity to perjure themselves.

“I want you to prepare for the Untersuchung with prayer and fasting,” he said, and there was dismay upon every face before him.

“It hath been shown the elders of Zanah that Walda Kellar is to be the instrument of the Lord. From her lips will fall words of wisdom. You all know her, for she hath often spoken to you. She hath sung to you hymns of praise. She will no longer come among you, for she must live apart, but it will be revealed to her what is best for the colony. You must no longer run to her as if she were your mother. You must bow before her. You must no longer speak unto her, for she will be above all the people of the colony.”

The hand of Johann Werther was raised, and, when he had been given permission to speak, he asked:

“Are all women daughters of Eve?”

“Yea, yea,” declared the Herr Doktor. “Thou knowest that Eve was the mother of all.”

“And Walda Kellar is to be the instrument of the Lord?”

“Why ask foolish questions? Thou knowest she is to be the inspired one.”

“I would know why a man was not chosen instead of a daughter of Eve?” said Johann.

“Thou shouldst use thy silly brain for less mighty questions,” was the stern reply. Turning to the school-master the Herr Doktor gave the order:

“Dismiss thy pupils.” Adding: “We would talk with thee.”

Gerson Brandt sent the boys out-of-doors, and then waited for the president of the colony to speak.

“Brother Weisel and I are dissatisfied about many things in the colony,” announced Adolph Schneider, taking a seat on the platform. “There is general discontent. If the Untersuchung were not so near, we should be alarmed for the peace of Zanah. The loss of the Bible hath cast suspicion upon thee, Brother Brandt. It is not my desire to say unpleasant things to thee, but in Zanah we are all truthful. Thou wilt not again be elected as elder unless thou canst trace the Bible.”

“It would be better for thee to say that Brother Brandt cannot be elected unless he decides to bring the Bible from the hidden place that he hath found for it,” broke in Karl Weisel.

“Silence!” commanded the school-master. “Thou shalt not accuse me of stealing the Bible from the colony of Zanah and then of denying all knowledge of it. Take back thy cowardly words.”

“It is the custom to speak what we hold to be the truth,” said Karl Weisel, in a mocking tone. “I believe that thou knowest where that Bible is secreted.”

“It hath been said that men always suspect other men of being what they themselves are, and so I make some allowance for thy words; but thou shalt ask my pardon.” Gerson Brandt spoke calmly, but his tone as well as his words made the elder cringe.

“I spoke merely for thine own good. It were better that I told thee what I thought than that I thought these things and turned to thee a dissembling face.”

“Crave my pardon,” said Gerson Brandt.

“I humiliate myself before no man,” said Karl Weisel. “It is my right to say what I think.”

“It is not thy right to cast aspersions on mine honor. I give thee one more chance to retract thy base charges.”

Karl Weisel put his fat hands into his deep pockets, rose from his chair, and walked back and forth upon the platform.

“This quarrel is most unseemly,” remarked Adolph Schneider, who had been leaning on his cane and idly listening.

“Speak!” said Gerson Brandt. “Thou shalt not leave this room until thou hast taken back thy words.”

Karl Weisel laughed, but in an instant the school-master had sprung upon the platform. He clutched the man by the collar, and, with the strength born of a tremendous indignation, he shook the heavy body of Karl Weisel until the elder’s teeth chattered.

“Loose thine hold upon me!” cried Karl Weisel, who had turned pale with terror.

Gerson Brandt flung him off. He knew he had forgotten all the precepts of the colony, but again the elder laughed, this time to disguise his fright.

“I give thee a chance to defend thyself,” said Gerson Brandt. “As man to man we shall fight this out.”

Adolph Schneider put himself between the two combatants, but Gerson Brandt, stepping past him, dragged Karl Weisel to the open space beside the platform, and there, facing him, said:

“I give thee thy last opportunity to beg my pardon.”

Karl Weisel did not open his lips. Instead, he covertly measured the distance to the door, and with a movement of unusual quickness turned in flight. He had not gone half a dozen steps before Gerson Brandt had him by the collar, and, dragging him back to his position, waited an instant for him to recover himself. Then he struck a blow that felled the elder.

“Help! Help!” shouted Adolph Schneider, who still stood upon the platform.

At first the prospect of a fight between the two influential men of the colony had suggested possibilities likely to redound into material good for himself, and he had been content to play the part of listener and spectator. Now, as he looked at Gerson Brandt, he no longer saw the school-master, but a man tall, sinewy, and muscular—a man in whose eye flashed anger and whose pose revealed an unsuspected strength.

“Help! Help!” he shouted again.

Gerson Brandt assisted his adversary to rise. The elder was stunned; the school-master pushed him into a chair, where he sat dazed and silent. Just then Hans Peter came shuffling in at the door. He walked as if he had heard an ordinary summons.

“Didst thou call?” he asked, addressing the Herr Doktor. His pale eyes rested on the figure of Karl Weisel, and there was just the faintest gleam of understanding in them. Before Adolph Schneider had a chance to answer, a rustle of skirts and a light step was heard on the stair that led from Wilhelm Kellar’s room.

“Hath anything gone amiss here?” asked Walda, throwing open the door and standing on the threshold. With a woman’s intuition she saw that there had been some quarrel.

“Be not alarmed,” said Gerson Brandt, walking down a side aisle at the end of the long benches. “The elder, Karl Weisel, accused me of stealing the Bible and of bearing false witness concerning it. The man in me resented the insult. He refused to apologize, and I struck him. Even now I am sorry that I should have hurt one of my fellow-colonists.”

“Nay, Gerson Brandt, thou didst forget that the Lord hath said, ‘Vengeance is Mine,’” cried Walda, going near to Gerson Brandt. “It is not like thee to let human passions triumph.”

“This will cost Gerson Brandt his place as an elder,” declared Karl Weisel, coming to himself enough to smooth his ruffled hair and settle his loosened stock.

“This is bad, indeed!” exclaimed Adolph Schneider. “In all my years of colony life I have never known one man in Zanah to raise his hand against a brother-colonist.”

“Surely my provocation was great,” said Gerson Brandt, “but I am sorry that I allowed anger to control me even for a moment.”

“This very night shall I prefer charges against thee,” Karl Weisel said, rising and waving his hand with a threatening gesture.

“This very night thou shouldst think well over the quarrel,” said Walda, advancing. “Thou knowest there hath been wrong on both sides. Art thou willing to confess that thou hast called thy brother a liar?” There was a simple majesty in the pose of the girl. For the moment she was the prophetess of Zanah. “Beware lest thou bring disgrace and dishonor to the people of Zanah. It is best that this hour be forgotten. Blot out thine enmities.”

“When Gerson Brandt hath explained what became of the Bible the cause of all the trouble will be removed,” said Karl Weisel, turning away from the intense gaze of the girl.

“Thou knowest the Good Book is lost. Thou knowest that Gerson Brandt never told aught but the truth. How darest thou impute evil to him? He hath been always one of the most faithful men in all Zanah.”

Turning to the school-master, she said:

“Ah, Gerson Brandt, I have prayed much about the Bible. Disturb not thyself. I have faith that it will be found. I would that it could be brought to thee to-day.”

In the back of the school-room, Hans Peter, who had been sitting cross-legged in the doorway, pulled himself to his feet.

“I could find the Bible; it is not far away,” he said.

“What dost thou know of it?” asked the Herr Doktor.

“I know that it lieth in the earth beneath a great stone. It is safe. Have no fears for it.” Hans Peter balanced himself first on one bare foot, and then on the other, and in his face was such a stupid look that Karl Weisel said:

“Look at the fool! He would shield the school-master, to whom he shows a dog’s devotion.”

“Dost thou really know where the Bible is, Hans Peter?” asked Walda, laying her hand upon the simple one’s shoulder.

“I have not said I knew. I said I knew I could get it,” answered the fool.

“Nay, dissemble not,” pleaded Walda. “I know now it was thou that didst hide the Bible from the elders.”

The boy looked down to the floor.

“Yea, I did take the Bible so that the stranger in Zanah could not buy it with his silver. It was for thy sake and for Gerson Brandt’s that I took it.”

“Listen not to the fool,” said Karl Weisel. “I tell thee he would shield Gerson Brandt.”

“There is a likelihood of truth in his words,” declared the Herr Doktor. Then, in a thundering tone, he commanded: “Bring the Bible to me.”

“It may not be easily found,” Hans Peter answered, still keeping his eyes on the floor.

“Dare not try to put me off,” thundered Adolph Schneider, shaking his cane at the simple one. “Without more ado, fetch it to me.”

All this time Gerson Brandt had been standing silent and sad. He now waited expectantly for the last answer. He knew that his precious book was, indeed, in jeopardy.

Hans Peter gently took Walda’s hand from his shoulder, and, backing to the door, said, rolling his great head from side to side:

“The fool hath no memory. If he would know the thing that happened yesterday he must mark upon a gourd words that will bring back to his poor mind what is past.”

“Let him not make terms; let him not trade upon his folly,” interposed Karl Weisel.

“Thou hast not forgotten where the Bible is hidden?” inquired Walda, very gently.

“I did bury the gourd that told me where the Bible is, and upon another gourd I marked where that gourd was hidden.”

“Quick! We care not about thy lunatic pastimes. Bring the Bible!” shouted the Herr Doktor, overcome with impatience.

“And the second gourd I carried in my pocket until one day, when I was marking on it something the stranger had told me, the Herr Doktor struck it out of my hand with his cane and put his heel upon it. The Bible is safe, but it cannot be found without long search.”

When the simple one had made his tantalizing speech, the school-master spoke in a quiet tone:

“Hans Peter, thou knowest that the precious book may be spoiled in the ground. Try to think where it is.”

“Nay, I tell thee it is safe, for it is wrapped in the oil-skin in which thou didst keep it, and it is nailed in a great box that is covered with another box. I did work upon the boxes a large part of the night before I buried the Bible.”

“The village fool is not to be believed,” said Karl Weisel, “but he ought to be locked up until he can be made to confess that what he is telling is all a lie.”

The Herr Doktor descended from the platform, and, going to the door, clutched Hans Peter by the shoulder. “Thou shalt have a chance to collect thy wits, my boy. Come with me. In a dark room in the cellar of the gasthaus thou canst stay until thou hast some memory about the Bible.”

“Before we part it is well that we all agree to forget this misunderstanding,” said Walda. “I am sure Hans Peter will find the Bible, and that we can cast out all anxiety concerning it.”

Hans Peter made no reply. He stood with both hands thrust into his capacious pockets. The Herr Doktor pulled him through the door, and, followed by Karl Weisel, he went down the street towards the inn.

Gerson Brandt turned a white and troubled face to Walda when they were left alone together.

“Thou hast seen me in the clutch of an earthly passion,” he said. “Thou knowest now how unworthy I am to be counted as a counsellor of a prophetess. I have naught to say in extenuation, except that in man human impulses often triumph over the divine aspirations. Canst thou forget that I have thus resented an insult?”

Walda came closer to him.

“Gerson Brandt, it may be wicked of me, but somehow I like thee better because thou hast demanded that Karl Weisel retract his sinful words. He hath called his brother a liar, and God will judge him for that.”

“And I should have remembered that I am not the judge,” said Gerson Brandt. “I should not have let myself take vengeance into mine own hand. When thou art the prophetess thou wilt become my teacher, and, Walda, I am half glad I shall need thine aid to overcome sin.”

“Thou hast been my teacher so long it seemeth I could never have any wisdom greater than thine.”

Gerson Brandt looked into her eyes.

“Being a woman, thou hast wisdom and power of which thou little dreamest,” he said.

“If I have aught of wisdom, it is because thou hast been my guide ever since I was a child. Gerson Brandt, thou hast been nearer to me than my father; thou hast been more to me than all the brothers in the colony.”

“It hath always seemed, Walda, that thou wert sent to reconcile me to life in Zanah. Thy presence hath helped me to overcome all rebellion. Having prayed for the time of thine inspiration, it is a struggle for me to give thee up. It is as if I were losing thee, even though thou wilt still be in the colony.”

“Nay, Gerson, it seemeth to me that when the light of inspiration cometh to me thou must share it, for, after all, it is thy knowledge and thy faith that is in me. There hath come to me lately something of the illumination thou hast told me to expect, Gerson Brandt. There are days when it is as if I stood on the threshold of heaven. My heart is lifted up with a strange joy. I hear harmony in the rustling of the leaves in the trees and the flowing of the water under the bridge and the faint night-sounds that come to mine ears when the village hath gone to sleep. Long after the curfew-bell hath sounded I open my casement and look out into the sky. It is then I feel the vastness of the universe, and yet know that God hath not forgotten me.”

As Walda spoke her face was radiant with new joy, and Gerson Brandt knew she was even then far removed from him.

“Thou lookest from thy casement every night? Dost thou gaze at the moon?” he asked.

“Yea, Gerson Brandt, I look long at the moon.”

“Walda, that is a habit maidens have when they think not of God but of man. Thou hast in thy thought no human being?”

“There is often a light in the inn; it shineth from the window of him whom we not long ago called the stranger in Zanah. It bringeth him into my mind, and I thank God for his coming to the colony.”

Walda’s words smote the school-master. A faint color came into his thin cheeks. He steadied himself against the desk.

“It is not thy duty to pray for the stranger. The elders can do that,” he declared.

“Nay, but he hath helped me much. He hath brought me strength.”

“Beware lest that strength become thy weakness.” There was a tremor in Gerson Brandt’s voice, and his manner puzzled the girl.

“Thou dost speak in riddles,” she said. “Thou knowest his world could not touch me. When I gaze from my window I am glad, indeed, that the bluffs shut me out from all the wickedness of the life beyond the colony.”

“I beg thy pardon, Walda. It was an unworthy suspicion that crossed my mind. Surely to-day Satan is close to me. And when thou gazest at the moon dost thou think of any one else?”

“Of my father, Gerson Brandt, and always of thee.”

“And how do I come to thee in thy thoughts, Walda?”

“Thou comest as one that is ever dear to me. Since thou didst first take me on thy knee thou hast shared with my father all the earthly love of my heart. Have I not often told thee so?”

“Thou didst never think of me as nearer to thine own age than thy father? Do I always appear so old to thee?”

“Truly, thou dost seem like my father.” In her voice was an infinite tenderness, and the school-master, with a tremor in his voice, answered:

“And yet I am but fifteen years thy senior.”

“But thou lovest me as if I were thy daughter. I have always felt that thou didst give me something more than the neighborly regard in which all the people of Zanah hold one another.”

Gerson Brandt made no answer.

“Thou dost love me as if I were thy daughter?” she repeated.

“Thou hast forever a place in the sanctuary of my heart, Walda.”

The school-master and the prophetess of Zanah looked into each other’s eyes for a brief moment.

“Then I know that thou wilt always pray for me—that thou wilt always keep me safe from all worldly temptations.”

“Yea, thou wilt always have my care. Thou wilt always command my services and my prayers. To-day I feel humble, indeed, because I lost my self-control, but I shall strive always to be worthy to be counted as one who walketh near to the prophetess of Zanah. Walda, to-day I am weak indeed. I feel how much I shall need divine strength in the years to come. My way is a lonely one. It is said that after the inspiration is vouchsafed to a prophetess her soul withdraws itself from all human companionship, and that even if it were not the custom to separate the instrument of the Lord from the colonists of Zanah, there would be naught in common between her and those who try to serve God in humbler ways. Lately, Walda, I have looked forward with a feeling that the years without thee will be weary. When thou art the prophetess there will be none with whom I can speak of the dreams I have shared with thee.”

“Thy dreams, as thou callest them, first made me feel the mysteries of life. Gerson Brandt, it was thou who didst awaken my soul; it was thou who didst turn my heart to God, and now, verily, thou wilt not be sorrowful when my day of inspiration comes?”

“To-day there is so much of self victorious in me that I know the day of the Untersuchung will make me sad. It was my intention on that day to give thee the Bible that is lost. For many months thou knowest I worked upon it, making the letters beautiful for thine eyes, and it was a solace to me to feel, every day as I turned the pages upon which I had worked with many a prayer and blessing for thy welfare, that thou wouldst take pleasure in its beauty.”

“And was that Bible for me, Gerson? On the last day when thou didst give it to me to read before the school I did covet it.”

“I did think that I should never tell thee, and it was a sore trouble when Adolph Schneider demanded that it be sold. I tell thee this because, as I have said to-day, I am weak, and I would say something in extenuation of my unseemly conduct towards the head of the thirteen elders.”

“And I am very human, for I am glad that the book is lost, and that the elders had no chance to take it from thee.”

“I could not endure the thought that the stranger from the outside world should possess what I had come to believe belonged to thee.”

Walda turned her head away a moment. Then she answered:

“I want the Bible very much indeed; but, Gerson Brandt, if any stranger were to have it, it had been better it should go to Stephen Everett than to any one else.”

A look of pain came into the school-master’s face. His eyes sought the girl’s with a glance that strove to read her heart.

“And I would rather that the Bible be destroyed, that its pages be scattered and its letters obliterated, than that Stephen Everett should call it his own.”

“Why, Gerson Brandt, thou speakest with much stress. Thou art, indeed, unlike thyself to-day.”

“Perhaps my real self is uppermost, Walda, and the school-master, who was always so submissive and passive, is not the actual man.”

“Peace to thy heart.” Walda came close to him. “Let me tell thee that I should have held the Bible as a precious token from thee, and that I am grateful for the kindly thought with which thou hast wrought it for me.”

Tears were in her eyes. She hesitated a moment, as if waiting for an answer. Gerson Brandt, with arms folded across his breast, pressed his lips tightly together lest he might speak with the fervor of one who covets from God a supreme gift that must be forever beyond reach.