Kneeling by the window in her bare little room, Walda tried to pray after the manner of Zanah, yet no words of penitence came to the lips that had been touched by a lover’s kiss. The soul that the good elders had turned towards heaven as a mirror upon which the divine will might be reflected held an earthly image. A human love was enshrined in the heart that had been consecrated to God. As the girl prostrated herself, the discipline of long years of religious training was forgotten. Her Zanah life fell from her. New emotions swept over her, submerging her old character and bringing strange, sweet hopes. The soul of the priestess was consumed by the supreme passion of earth, and in its place flamed the soul of a woman.

One by one the lowly duties that had occupied her days came up before her. She recalled the pious fervor that had made them pleasant. Looking back to the time when Everett’s chance words in the sick-room had tempted her to enjoy the beauties of sky and field, she realized how far she had grown away from her former self since the almost imperceptible beginning of the fuller life which she had unconsciously entered. Kneeling there in the darkness, for the first time in all her life she rebelled against the laws of Zanah. Her youth and womanhood demanded the privilege of accepting human love. Everett’s influence was over her, and she gave little thought to the future. It was enough to feel the exaltation of love, to comprehend that she stood at the threshold of the ultimate mystery of life. She looked out at the stars that shone above the far horizon. She felt that she had ceased to belong to Zanah. It was as if she had entered into a larger kinship with all nature. Love had wrought the miracle that puts away all one’s years and leads the soul into a new existence independent of the past, expectant of the future.

Long after the village had gone to sleep Everett stayed out in the starlight, thinking of the weeks he had spent in Zanah, and of the woman who would henceforth claim his life’s allegiance. He dreamed of the future that was his and Walda’s. He saw the girl’s stunted life expanding under its new environments. His thoughts wandered over imaginary years, and he beheld her clad in the ripened charm of maturity. He saw the light of happiness in her eyes reflected in the eyes of their children. Sometimes, perhaps, they would look back to Zanah and thank God that among the middle-aged mothers with dwarfed minds and cramped souls there was none that bore the name of Walda Kellar.

For Walda the next day dawned with mysterious splendor. Zanah had fallen under a spell of enchantment, yet as the village awoke to life all its influences once more stole over her. Looking out of her window, she began to remember that she had been the prophetess of Zanah. She watched the men and boys walk leisurely towards the factory. Ox-teams creaked up the narrow street. The children solemnly wandered schoolward. She could no longer put her father or Gerson Brandt from her thoughts. The realization that she would give them pain burst upon her.

She tried to think what Everett’s love meant to her, but she found it impossible to get beyond the one idea that she was to be unfaithful to the trust that the people of Zanah had put in her. She did not shrink from facing the change in her position in the colony, but she could not understand what her future would be. She recalled that Everett had taken it for granted she would leave Zanah, but she knew she could not desert her father, even though a greater love than that which she bore for him might call her away. She was not sad, however, for underneath her new anxieties there was the consciousness of the revelation of love, the recognition of divinity that was so different from the one to which she had looked forward since her childhood. It gradually came over her that the inspiration she had felt came through a human medium, and not directly from heaven. She fell upon her knees before the low table that held her little German Bible. She tried to pray that she might know the will of God, but she could not bring herself to plead that she would have power to cast out from her heart the human love which had brought to her life the holy exaltation she had hoped to obtain through rigid conformity to the creed of Zanah.

Walda went out of the house of the women and stood in the little street, in which she felt suddenly that she was a stranger. She turned her steps towards the hill, for she obeyed the impulse to go to her father. Wilhelm Kellar was sitting in the window whence Walda had looked so many times at the far-off bluffs. He was reading his Bible, and as Walda entered the room he was mildly rebuking Piepmatz, who was singing the doxology and the love-song, mingled in such a medley as was never before heard from the throat of any bird.

“Peace be with thee, daughter,” he said, taking off his horn spectacles and stretching out his thin hand to her.

Walda clasped his hands, and her eyes fell beneath his glance. “Thou art feeling better, I hope?” she said, sinking upon a stool that was just beneath Piepmatz’s cage.

“The knowledge that the day of the Untersuchung is so near giveth me new life,” declared the old man. “To-day I am full of gratitude because the Lord hath kept thee safe from the wiles of men. I have given thanks unto the Lord that thou art to be the prophetess.”

Walda’s face flushed and then became pale. Her heart beat so that she could not answer.

“Come near to me, Walda,” her father said. “I would tell thee that thou hast crowned my life with happiness, that thou hast atoned for the sin of the mother who bore thee.”

Walda knelt before him and hid her face upon his knee.

“Nay, nay, father,” she cried, “I am unworthy of thy trust. I am but a weak woman such as thou sayest my mother was.”

“It is right that thou shouldst feel humble, my daughter,” the old man replied, putting both hands upon her head. “But thou hast not sinned in deceiving those that trust thee. Thou hast not known the temptations of a human love.”

“Father, father!” Walda raised her head and looked up with tearful eyes.

A knock sounded on the door, and Hans Peter, still tapping on the door-jamb with one of his gourds, crossed the threshold.

“The elders have sent me to tell thee they would consult with thee. They bade me make ready the ink-horn and the papers, as they have business of much importance,” he announced.

Walda went away from her father’s room with her confession still unspoken. She lingered for a moment on the school-house porch, for she felt uncertain what to do with her day. For the first time in all her Zanah life she had no inviting task before her. She was already removed from the calm routine of duty. Ordinarily she would have gone to study the heavy books kept in the elders’ room which occupied a little wing of the meeting-house, but as she looked at the door, which stood invitingly open, she felt that she would no longer need to be familiar with the annals of former prophetesses and the discourses of the elders long since sanctified by good works. She had a sense of being outside the colony. A pang of homesickness made her sink upon the bench and look out upon the quiet valley.

The years had slipped by so noiselessly that she had come into womanhood without realizing the changes wrought by time. When she was a child, the colonists had labored in simple harmony and humble faith, content to work for the common welfare. Each season their harvests had been more abundant, their vineyards more fruitful, their lands more extensive. In the midst of this well-preserved plenty she had been happy, although she had often vexed the “mothers” by her sudden impulses and hasty actions. Beneath the kerchief crossed upon her breast now an eager, restless heart beat, and she comprehended that all the teachings of the good elders had not altered her intense nature. It seemed to her that Zanah had been metamorphosed since the coming of the early summer-time when she had looked forward to the autumn with a large hope for the final step towards her complete consecration to the service of God and the colony. She felt that, somehow, mysterious influences were at work. There was a general discontent. It had been a bad year for both the mills and the harvest fields, and she had represented hope and wisdom to the colonists. Tears came to her eyes when she thought that she had betrayed the trust of Zanah, and yet underneath her remorse was the consciousness that she was being led by the divine power in which she had trusted. Love flamed beneath every shifting emotion.

Through her tears Walda gazed down at the quaint village. The low-roofed stone houses were almost hidden beneath the vines and shrubbery that were turning to gorgeous color with the magic touch of the first frosts which had come early. Beyond the village the little valley melted into the plain, which rolled away to the far-off bluffs. The fields were brown and gold, as the gleaners had left them after the harvests, except here and there where the rich, black earth had been turned up by the plough. Cattle grazed beside the placid river that flowed almost imperceptibly onward to the Mississippi. The sunlight, mellowed by the autumn haze, glorified even the commonest every-day things. The scene had the beauty that gave it unreality. As her eyes rested upon the familiar landscape Walda felt a vague fear that it might vanish, since she had forfeited her right to remain in it as one of the faithful colonists. While she was looking down the wavering street she saw Gerson Brandt slowly climbing the hill. He had taken off the broad-rimmed hat that distinguished him from the other men of Zanah, and Walda noticed with a pang that his face had the stamp of pain upon it. He paused half-way up the hill to look back upon the village, and the girl, whose perceptions had been quickened with her recognition of an earthly love, noticed that the school-master’s tall form was more stooped than usual. When he resumed his walk towards the school-house Gerson Brandt caught sight of Walda, and his face took on an expression of gladness.

“Providence is kind to give me yet another chance to speak with thee before the Untersuchung,” he said, pausing before her. He saw that there were tears in her eyes, which refused to meet his glance. “Thou hast no sorrow? Surely, I know that nothing can disturb thee, now that thou art so near to thy Father in heaven. Yet why dost thou weep?”

He pushed the long hair back from his forehead with a trembling hand while he waited for her reply, but she remained silent, with only her profile turned to him. The white kerchief on her breast moved with her quick breathing.

“Canst thou not answer me, Walda?” he asked, in the tender tone that she remembered from her childhood.

Walda rested her elbows on the back of the porch seat, and, with her chin in her hands, shook her white-capped head. The tears began to fall so rapidly that she dared not try to speak. Gerson Brandt sank upon the seat opposite her.

“It would be foolish for me to offer thee solace for thine aching heart, for I know that thou, who art the prophetess of Zanah, no longer cravest human sympathy. Forgive me for forgetting that thou art no longer the colony maiden over whom I have felt a care all these years. Yet thy tears are no more sacred to me now than they were in thine earliest childhood, Walda. Thy griefs were always felt by me.” Gerson Brandt leaned forward as if he would read what was in Walda’s heart, and he paled with a formless fear.

“Thy tears distress me,” he said, presently, “and yet I know that it is but natural thou shouldst feel awe-stricken and oppressed with a weight of responsibility, now that thou art so near to thy consecration.”

“Speak not so. Thy words smite me,” exclaimed Walda, turning towards him and blushing scarlet as she met his eyes. “I am not worthy to be the prophetess. I—I—I am sorely troubled.” She put her face upon her arms and sobbed.

“To them whom the Lord maketh most strong He revealeth weakness,” the school-master replied.

“I shall need much strength,” said Walda, controlling herself with an effort.

“Yea, that is true,” agreed Gerson Brandt. “My prayers will help to support thee, for thou art always in my mind. Much have I rejoiced to know that thou hast escaped all danger from earthly love. Ah, now that thou hast safely passed thy period of probation nothing can befall thee.”

“Gerson Brandt, tell me what would have happened if I had found an earthly love?” asked Walda, turning to him with an intensity of interest that was but lightly disguised.

“Why wouldst thou waste time talking of such an unprofitable subject now at this holy season? It is a sacrilege to link the name of the prophetess of Zanah with an earthly love.”

The school-master was looking far away as he answered, and he did not see that his words caused the girl to clasp her hands tightly and to bite her full, red lips.

“Tell me, is human love such a wicked thing, after all? Thou didst once speak to me as if thou hadst known it, and thou canst tell me whether it hath in it something of the divine quality. If I had loved, wouldst thou have condemned me as severely as would those of the colonists who live like the cattle on the fields, feeling none of the mystery and the glory of life?”

“If thou hadst loved any man I should have sorrowed more than all the colony, for I have longed to see thee spared the pangs and pains that love brings.”

“Doth love never bring happiness?”

“The woman who loveth must suffer much,” declared Gerson Brandt.

“But women are glad to suffer for love.”

In Walda’s eyes shone the light of a new-born courage, and Gerson Brandt, catching some of the spirit that had taken possession of her, answered:

“Walda, it passeth understanding that thou shouldst speak thus of love now, when thou hast gone forever beyond the reach of temptation. Thy mood doth confound me.”

He went near to her, and, standing before her, studied her face.

“In thine eyes I behold a mystery,” he said, presently, with a tremor in his voice. “Thou hast lost the essence of childhood that lingered with thee until—was it yesterday or to-day that thou didst lose it?”

“The world hath been different to me since the sun set yesterday.” Walda spoke the words softly, and Gerson Brandt beheld in her face a radiance which made him ashamed of the vague suspicions that had sent a chill to his heart.

“Verily, the spirit of prophecy hath descended upon thee. Thou hast come into the full possession of the divine gift.” He drew away from her, and looked at her in awe.

“Nay, nay,” Walda faltered; “thou art deceived.”

Her gaze wandered past him as she spoke, and she saw, ascending the hill, six of the village mothers. Gerson Brandt, following her glance, said: “This is the day when thy vigil beginneth. The watchers are coming for thee.”

Walda’s face paled.

“I had forgotten that the time had come,” she exclaimed. “I am not ready for it. I am unworthy.”

“It is the hour of our last talk together,” Gerson Brandt announced, in a solemn tone. “Thy misgivings are only human.” He raised his hands above her bowed head and gave her his blessing. He could not trust himself to look at her again. Passing by her he entered the school-house, closing the door tightly behind him, lest he might be tempted to look back.

Walda submissively followed the women, who led the way to the little room that opened out of the bare auditorium of the meeting-house. It was here that she had spent many hours of study among the elders’ books, but its appearance was slightly changed. In one corner stood a cot covered with white blankets of the finest weave that came from the looms of Zanah. In the centre was a reading-desk, upon which a large Bible lay open. Six chairs were ranged along the wall just outside the door that led into the interior of the meeting-house.

“Thou wilt find nothing to distract thy thoughts here,” said Mother Kaufmann, glancing into the room.

“We will take good care that thou art not disturbed,” asserted Mother Schneider.

Walda gave no sign that she heard. Crossing the threshold she closed the door, shutting out the six women. She threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to a paroxysm of weeping. The realization that she had missed her opportunity to confess her love for Everett at first frightened her, for she knew it was now too late to speak before going to the Untersuchung. Zanah guarded a prophetess so carefully that when once the door of the sanctuary in which Marta Bachmann had fasted and prayed closed upon one supposed to be inspired, no word could be spoken. She lay awake far into the night. When the day had faded, a single candle had been put upon her reading-desk by Mother Kaufmann, who scanned her face with the inquisitive look of a mischief-maker. Walda, sitting with folded hands, had appeared oblivious of the woman’s presence. She had heard the evening prayers of the colony gathered in the meeting-house. She felt a dull pain when she recalled her father’s face. Underneath every emotion that she experienced in the dreary watches of the night she was always conscious of the memory of Everett’s voice as he pleaded for her love. At first she had a faint hope that he might speak to her through the window, or that, in some way, he would send her a token of encouragement, but nothing disturbed the oppressive quiet of the laggard hours.

Walda was wakened early in the morning, after a brief and troubled sleep, by the whispers of the women outside her door. She knew that the watch was being changed, and that soon she would be expected to be kneeling at her prayers. Rising from the cot she looked out of the one window—it overlooked the school-house garden, and she saw Gerson Brandt walking back and forth amid the tangled nasturtiums and late asters. As he moved to and fro he never once turned his eyes towards the meeting-house. With difficulty Walda repressed an impulse to call him to her. Through all her childhood and girlhood he had bent a ready ear when she told him her troubles, and now it seemed an easy matter to confide in him. While she was still at the window, Gerson Brandt went up the worn steps that led to the school-room.

A long, dull day followed for Walda. Her pride enabled her to preserve an outward calm when, on various pretexts, the women opened the door to look in upon her. She tried to think what she ought to do. So great is the power of love that it did not occur to her she might try to put out of her heart the sacred emotion she had mistaken for religious inspiration. She accepted it as the divine gift for which she had been waiting. Although she knew that it was likely her father would forbid her marriage to Everett, she told herself no one in Zanah could take away from her the glory of an earthly love. Towards the end of the day she fell again into the old habit of praying much. Kneeling at the reading-desk, with her head upon the big Bible, she asked that she might be given strength to do her duty to her father, and to submit to the will of Zanah.

For the second time the evening hymns were chanted outside the door. Walda listened quite calmly, and, long after she knew the meeting-house was emptied of all except the six watchers, she sat in the fading light of the evening looking out into the schoolyard, and thinking serenely of the life she was putting behind her. Presently her thoughts were disturbed by a man’s voice. With a heart-flutter she recognized Everett’s low, clear tones. She heard him command one of the women to open the door. Rising to her feet, she listened breathlessly to the protracted parley that followed. Without warning, a light knock sounded on the door.

“Let me in, Walda,” said Everett.

Before she could go to the door, he had lifted the latch and had entered, followed by the six women, all of whom spoke words of angry protest.

“So this is where they have hidden you, Walda?” he said, paying no attention to the colony mothers. “I have searched for you all day, for I have much that I wish to say to you.”

His manner was quiet and determined. “I wish to be left alone with Walda Kellar,” he said, turning to the watchers. “I have a message of much importance to give to her.”

“How darest thou break in upon the vigil of a prophetess of Zanah!” shrieked Mother Kaufmann. “Dost thou not know that the instrument of the Lord is not permitted to speak until the last hour of her probation hath expired?”

“Ja, ja, Mother Kaufmann is right. We will send for the elders if thou dost not leave here this minute,” chorused the women.

Everett coolly surveyed the group. Putting out his hand he grasped Walda’s arm, and quickly drew her into the meeting-house assembly-room. With a quick motion he slammed the door and turned the key, imprisoning the six women, who immediately began to call for help. Reopening the door for a little space he ordered them to keep silence, accompanying his admonition with the remark that if they summoned a crowd they would prove they were not fit to watch the prophetess. For the second time he turned the big key. Walda had watched the proceeding with astonishment. Her face was white and scared when he put his arms around her and drew her to him.

“There, do not be frightened,” he said, soothingly, as he kissed her on the forehead. “I have come to take you away.”

“Ah, Stephen; now, indeed, do I know that I was never fitted to be a prophetess,” said Walda, looking up into his face. “My heart hath thirsted for thee. With thine arms around me I feel as if I had found a safe refuge from all my troubles. When thou didst kiss me I forgot for a moment that I had been untrue to the people who trusted me.”

“I mean never to let you go away from me again,” he said. “But come; we are wasting time. Let us go now to your father and tell him that you are to belong to me, and not to Zanah.”

Walda drew away from him. “Nay, Stephen,” she said. “In the nights and day that I have been alone there in that room, it hath been made plain to me that I must tell all the people how I have betrayed their faith in me.”

“You owe the people nothing,” said Everett, with a trace of impatience in his voice. “Come; there is no time to be lost. I mean to take you away from Zanah this very night. Your father and Gerson Brandt can explain to the colony why you are not to be their prophetess.”

Walda shook her head. “Wouldst thou have me show a craven spirit?” she inquired. “Dost thou think I could go away to be happy with thee and forget my father, even if I could be unmindful of what I owe the men and women of Zanah?”

“Do you not think you owe me any duty?” Stephen asked. “Do not let us stand here discussing what is right and wrong. It is right that you should be my wife. You have been the victim of the bigotry and superstition of a clannish, religious sect. Love has made you free. Doesn’t your heart tell you to answer the call from my heart?” He stretched out his arms to her, but she stepped beyond his reach.

“Stephen, I have prayed constantly that wisdom might be given me, and my way hath been made plain before me,” she answered, firmly. “I must go before the Untersuchung, and, for my father’s sake, I must accept whatever penalty is meted out to me.”

“Do you mean that you would submit to any decree of the colony of Zanah? That signifies that you do not love me, after all. It means that you are lost to me forever.”

The strong man’s voice trembled as he spoke. A wave of passion and longing swept over him. He drew her to him and held her close, pillowing her head upon his breast, and whispering to her that she was his; it was not in her power to make the choice since love gave him the right to her.

“Thou dost affright me. There is something in thy love that terrifies me,” she said, trying to make him free her.

“I shall not let you go until you have promised that you will marry me,” he said.

“I cannot promise that, Stephen,” she said, so faintly that he scarcely heard her. “Thou knowest I cannot leave my father, and surely thou wouldst not be content to stay here in Zanah.”

“I could live here or anywhere else with you. Promise.”

“Nay, nay, I cannot,” she repeated.

“Will you pledge yourself to marry me when your conscience tells you that you are free?”

“It is in my heart to promise that to thee, Stephen, but during my vigil I have come to know that if thou shouldst live away from me out in the world thou mightst no longer love me. Nay, I will not bind thee. The only pledge I give thee is the pledge that I will love thee all my life.”

A furious knocking on the door made them remember the imprisoned watchers.

“If you refuse to go with me now what do you wish to do?” Stephen asked, coming back to the subject of his original errand.

“I want to wait until the Untersuchung, and I want thee to be patient until thou hearest what the elders say. I shall pray that I may be given to thee.”

“There is no danger of your repenting of love, is there, Walda?”

She smiled confidently and answered: “Thy love will dwell in my heart forever.”

He kissed her farewell, holding both her hands in his.

“I wish I could spare you the ordeal of the Untersuchung,” he exclaimed. “Why need we care for all the world?”

“Hush!” she said. “We care not for Zanah or the whole world, but if we would keep our love holy, we must be true, Stephen, to all our duties.”

After he had kissed her for the last time, she stood before the elders’ platform and looked up at the chair of the prophetess. Everett unlocked the door.

“I appreciate the opportunity you have given me of speaking to Walda Kellar,” he said, with a suavity and courtesy to which the women of the colony were so unaccustomed they did not know what it meant. They stood scowling at him until Mother Kaufmann replied:

“Thou wilt be ordered out of the colony for this day’s work.”

“If you are wise—and I am sure you are, or you would not have been chosen to attend the prophetess of Zanah—you will not make any complaints.” He bowed deferentially to all of them, and passing Walda, before whom he stopped to whisper “Farewell, until the Untersuchung,” he went out of the meeting-house.

“It must have been a message of much import that brought the stranger here,” sneered Mother Kaufmann, as she seated herself on the nearest chair.

“He hath small respect for the laws of Zanah,” declared a second watcher.

Without uttering a word, Walda returned to her place of temporary imprisonment. Kneeling before her reading-desk, she prayed that she might be given strength and courage to accept whatever penalty the elders might allot to her.