The day of the Untersuchung came at last. A brilliant sun shone upon Zanah. An early frost had turned the maples yellow and had touched the oaks with crimson. In the vineyards the last purple grapes hung in the shrivelled foliage. Along the winding road the golden-rod was blossoming in the tall, feathery grasses. A hush fell upon the quiet valley in the morning. The brown fields on lowland and hill-side were deserted. At the edge of the village the mill-wheels had ceased their busy whir.

Everett had walked out under the autumn sky nearly all night. In the days that had passed since his interview with Walda at the meeting-house all the villagers had avoided him. Even the school-master had passed him by with scarcely a nod of recognition. Time had dragged. Of all the people of Zanah, Hans Peter alone remained on friendly terms with him.

At dawn Everett arose from a brief sleep, and dressed himself with unusual care. The thought came to him that before sundown he might be robbed of Walda. All his strength left him. He dropped upon a chair near the window. Love had become life to him. Sitting with his elbows on his knees he looked out upon Zanah. Walda represented hope, worship, aspiration. The touch of her lips had awakened all that was good in him. He, who had rarely prayed, petitioned, in an agony of longing, that he might be given the woman of Zanah.

Some one knocked. Everett jumped to his feet to open the door. Hans Peter, freshly scoured with soap until his round face shone, stood in the hall, twirling a cap that had been recently mended.

“The elders have sent me to tell thee that thou art to remain away from the timber-land where the Untersuchung is to be held,” announced the simple one.

“And why is my absence desirable?” Everett asked.

“Question not the village fool,” Hans Peter replied. “He knoweth not what the great men of Zanah think inside their wise heads.”

“What do you think inside your foolish head?” Everett laughed, as if he made light of the order.

Hans Peter looked down at a pair of copper-toed shoes, which were to him the insignia of an unusual occasion.

“It seemeth to the simple one of Zanah that it is wise for the stranger to be far away when the prophetess doth pledge herself to love only God and the angels.”

“I intend to go to the Untersuchung, Hans Peter, and I want you to find a good place from which I can look on during the hours when the people give their testimonies concerning the state of their souls.”

“Thou canst not sit among the colonists,” said Hans Peter. “The men and women of Zanah have turned against thee. They will not permit thee to mingle with them on the most solemn day of all the year.”

“Whether or not they permit me, I shall go to the Untersuchung,” Everett replied. “Would it not be safe for me to wait behind the line of poplars not far off from the platform upon which the elders will sit?”

“If thou shouldst go out there early, and stay where the wild hop-vine might hide thee, there is a chance no one would behold thee,” admitted the simple one.

“When does the prophetess go before the elders?” Everett inquired. “I know nothing of to-day’s arrangements, because here at the inn no one will give me any information. You are my only friend, Hans Peter. I expect you to tell me all you know.”

“Thou forgettest that the fool hath no memory.”

“Where are your gourds? Is there not one that will help me to find out when to hide among the poplars?”

Hans Peter twirled his cap.

“Thou wert merciful to me when I was in the stocks,” he said, slowly. “The fool’s memory hath still a knowledge of that day. The fool doth know that, last of all Zanah, Walda Kellar will appear before the elders.”

“That means I need not go to the Untersuchung until this afternoon?” queried Everett.

“Yea, thou shouldst wait until late in the day.” Hans Peter turned as if to run away, but Everett caught him by the sleeve of his gingham shirt.

“Have you been to the meeting-house to-day?” Everett asked, looking at the simple one with such entreaty in his eyes that Hans Peter answered:

“Yea, I have but just come from the place where the prophetess of Zanah hath been keeping her vigil.”

“You went there on an errand, I suppose?”

“I carried orders from the elders.” At this point Hans Peter closed his mouth very tightly and stared stupidly. Everett saw that further questioning would be of no avail.

As soon as he had had breakfast Everett walked out to the timber-land where the Untersuchung was to be held. The elders had chosen a strip of woods near the lake as a place for the ceremonies of the inquisition. The road leading to it was that over which Everett had walked with Walda the first day she visited the cemetery to pray at the grave of Marta Bachmann. About two hundred yards from the shore of the lake a large clearing had been made. A rude platform for the elders had been built between the lake shore and rough benches, which had been arranged in orderly rows beneath the intertwining trees. Everett saw that the line of poplars was beyond the place where the path led into the out-door chapel. Hidden there he could easily escape detection, and he would be near enough to hear most of what was said from the platform. He walked to the farther shore of the little lake, and lay down upon the ground to wait as patiently as he could for the laggard hours to pass. The quiet beauty of the day appealed to him, and, thinking of Walda, he was finally lulled to sleep. It was mid-day when he awoke. He sauntered back to the scene of the Untersuchung. He made a seat for himself at the foot of one of the poplars where the vines were thick. Through the screen of leaves he saw the people slowly gathering. The women occupied the benches nearest him.

By two o’clock all the colonists had assembled. The thirteen elders formed a solemn row, Adolph Schneider holding the middle place, with Wilhelm Kellar at one end of the platform and Gerson Brandt at the other. After a droning hymn and a tedious prayer, those who were candidates for preferment in the colony went before the elders. The men first were catechised by Adolph Schneider, who did not rise from his chair. Everett was astonished to see how few signified ambition for colony honors. When the women’s turn came the applicants greatly outnumbered the men. In both cases those who pleaded for advancement boasted of spiritual conflicts and victories. Their sing-song voices maddened the impatient lover. At last, when he had begun to fear that Walda would not be summoned until the next day, Everett noticed that the people, who had sat stolid and unmoved through the hours of dreary recitative, stirred with something like interest. Everett pulled himself to his feet, and, looking down the road, saw a sight that made his heart beat.

Two by two, a long line of girls approached slowly. All wore the blue gowns of the colony, but white caps and white kerchiefs were substituted for those of every-day use. Each carried in her hand a large hymnbook. When the procession turned into the path of the woodland chapel Everett caught sight of Walda, walking last of all. As they marched slowly onward, the girls chanted a hymn. Walda carried her head in the old, proud way, and her manner reassured the watcher who loved her. She was clothed in a trailing gown, fashioned of the white flannel from the colony mills. The clinging folds brought out the noble lines of her figure. The kerchief crossed upon her bosom was of some thin material of the same tint as the flannel. The cap, pushed back from her brow, revealed the waves of her fair hair, which was confined in two long braids. Her face was pale; her lips were firmly set; her eyes shone with the light of peace and courage. The little procession passed quite near Everett, but, although his heart called to her, and his eyes followed her, she appeared unconscious of his presence. He noticed that her hands hung at her sides, and he read a meaning in the fact that she no longer crossed them upon her breast in the old fashion, signifying that she would keep out the world and all its emotions.

When the procession appeared before the colonists all the people knelt in their places, none daring to lift curious eyes to her whom they hailed as the instrument of the Lord. The procession moved back of the assembly, crossing to the farther side of the clearing, and then advancing to the front of the platform. Here Walda took the central position, the girls separating to stand on either side of her. The chanting ceased, and Walda bowed her head in prayer.

All the elders rose to receive the prophetess of Zanah. Wilhelm Kellar, still weak from his illness, leaned upon his cane and murmured a thanksgiving to the Lord. Gerson Brandt, at the other end of the platform, looked at Walda, and then turned his eyes away, as if the day and hour held something that brought a severe test to the spirit long disciplined to self-control.

“Stand not before me, O ye elders,” Walda said, in a clear, steady voice, lifting up one hand to claim attention. “Bow not, O ye people of Zanah, for I am unworthy to be your prophetess.”

“Speak not such words of humility,” said Adolph Schneider. “We know that the inspiration hath come to thee. Thou hast already shown to us that thou hast received the gift of tongues. To-day thou shalt be anointed prophetess of Zanah.”

“Amen!” shouted one of the elders, and the word was repeated in a chorus by the men.

Walda’s face became as white as marble. She stood immovable, with one hand pressed against her breast as if she would stop the beating of her heart. She would have spoken, but the Herr Doktor turned to command that the chair of the prophetess be lifted to the centre of the platform. The elders moved to give it space, and, when it had been put in position, Adolph Schneider said:

“Come hither to thy rightful place among the elders.”

“My place is among the lowliest of the colonists,” said Walda. “Let me stand here while I speak to the people of Zanah.”

The elders shook their heads, and the people murmured that they could not hear. Walda walked to the end of the platform where the steps ascended. She moved slowly, pausing for a moment as she passed Gerson Brandt. She crossed the platform with head bowed, but when she faced the multitude there shone in her eyes a strange radiance that filled the colonists with awe.

“To all you of Zanah I have a last message,” she said, turning first to the elders and then to the people. “From the years of my childhood ye have led me in the ways of the Lord. Ye have looked upon me as the instrument chosen to reveal the divine will of Zanah. I have prayed through the months and years for the day of inspiration. It was not until this summer that mine eyes were opened to the glory of God. In my heart suddenly gushed a well-spring of happiness. I read meanings in the stars, and the smallest things of earth spake to me. It was as if I walked very near to God.”

Walda, pausing, swept the assembly with her eyes. In the exaltation of her mood she had become clothed in a majesty that overawed the people. Some of the women fell to their knees, weeping.

“Behold the prophetess! Behold the prophetess! Blessed be her name!” shouted one of the elders.

Walda continued, unheeding:

“In my heart I felt a gratitude, for I believed that at last the divine revelation had come to me. I thought that the love in my heart, which made all that pertaineth to life sacred, belonged to heaven alone. I thanked God that the baptism of the Holy Spirit had been given me.”

Cries of joy ascended from the throng.

“In the first days of the inspiration that had come to me I was impatient for this time, when I could dedicate my whole life to the service of Zanah. It seemed easy to live always near to God. Voices spake to me. I believed that I was, indeed, the prophetess of Zanah—the prophetess who could live untouched by human emotions. But one day there was given to me a clearer vision. Just before the beginning of my vigil it was shown to me that mine was not the rapture of the saints”—Walda paused and caught her breath—“I came into the knowledge that my inspiration had its origin in human love.”

She pronounced the last words distinctly, with her eyes uplifted. Gerson Brandt uttered her name in an agonized groan. Wilhelm Kellar strove to speak, but his voice died in his throat.

“What sayest thou, Walda Kellar?” demanded Adolph Schneider, rising from his chair. The colonists listened stolidly, as if they did not comprehend the meaning of Walda’s speech.

“Nay, surely thou hast not been touched by an earthly love?” said Gerson Brandt, in a tone which told that despair was clutching at his heart. “Thy words are vague.”

Walda saw the horror in her father’s face. She looked away from him and the school-master, waiting a moment that she might choose her words so that they would not give unnecessary pain.

“We believe thou hast not looked with favor on any man,” Adolph Schneider said, encouragingly, and then he added, as if to convey a covert warning to the people of Zanah: “Yet thou art a woman, and all that are made in the image of Eve are easy to be persuaded by the voice of Satan, speaking through man.”

“A love that is of heaven, and yet of earth, hath taken possession of my heart,” declared Walda, fixing her eyes upon the people. “It came to me like a great light shining through the gates of heaven. I did not know the glory that enfolded me was what ye of Zanah call an earthly love, for, truly, even now it seemeth to have in it more of heaven than of that which pertaineth to earth. I did not fight against this love which hath been revealed to me, for I did not know it was human love which made me feel a kinship with God. Here, in Zanah, ye have taught me that the love of men and women is a sinful thing, and there came to me no prick of the conscience—no warning that I was transgressing the law of God.”

She was transfigured with the mystery and beauty of her new heritage of love, and the people listened in awe. When she had stopped speaking, she turned to her father with a look of such pleading and entreaty that the old man, who had heard as one that dreams, moved his lips in an effort to speak. Presently there arose a murmur from the people. The Herr Doktor commanded that all should hold their peace.

“What man in Zanah hath stolen thy thoughts from God?” the Herr Doktor asked, in a stern voice.

“I love Stephen Everett, the stranger who belongeth not to Zanah,” Walda answered, in unfaltering tones.

A wail arose from the people. It grew into a mighty sound that was like the autumn winds rushing through the tall trees on the slopes of the bluffs.

“The tempter hath come to Walda Kellar even as he came to Marta Bachmann, but repentance is possible for her who hath been chosen to be the instrument of the Lord,” declared Adolph Schneider. “Daughter of Zanah, pluck this love from thine heart.”

“I have proclaimed to you that this love seemeth a holy thing sent from heaven. It is fixed in my heart forever.”

Walda was again the prophetess. She spoke slowly, and it was as if she were but repeating the promptings of some inner voice.

“Walda, I command thee, let the fountains of thy tears wash away this earthly love!” Wilhelm Kellar cried, rising from his chair and lifting his arms as if he were beseeching the intervention of Heaven.

“Nay, I cannot repent. There is that which tells me this is the love that is stronger than death,” Walda said, softly. “Father, I crave thy forgiveness, and the forgiveness of all that belong to Zanah.”

She went to him and knelt humbly before him. Gerson Brandt stood with arms folded across his breast and head bowed over them. Karl Weisel gathered some of the other elders close to him and talked to them in whispers. The people looked on breathlessly. Suddenly, from her place among the women, arose Mother Kaufmann.

“Behold the unfaithful one asking for forgiveness,” she cried, in rage. “Through her vanity and her weakness the divine messages that were to direct Zanah how to prosper are withheld from the colony. Our crops may fail and we may starve, but she careth for naught if she may love a man. She hath chosen a stranger sent by Satan from the outside world to confound us.”

Cries of derision and reproach were heard among the women. At first they were but low mutterings. Then an old hag jumped upon a bench and shouted:

“Send her back to the room where the watchers can guard her. Cast the stranger out of Zanah.”

“Yea, yea, cast out Satan’s messenger,” shouted the women. The men took up the cry, and in a moment the orderly crowd of religionists became a mob of fanatics which pressed towards the platform.

“Repent, repent!” shouted the people. “Remember thy duty!” “Put aside thy sinful love!” “Ask the Lord to forgive thee for thy transgression!”

Walda faced the angry mob fearlessly. Her personality still impressed the people, so that none dare lay hands upon her.

“Let the curse of Heaven descend upon the head of the stranger in Zanah!” Mother Kaufmann shrieked.

“Curse him! Curse him!” called out the men, repeating the woman’s imprecation.

In an instant Walda compelled silence. She raised her arms in a warning gesture, and shamed the people by the contempt she showed for their weakness as she looked down upon them.

“How are ye fitted to judge the stranger in Zanah?” she asked, in a scornful tone. “Have ye the Christian charity the Bible enjoins you to cherish in your hearts? If there is any one to be blamed for the loss of your prophetess it is I, Walda Kellar, that should bear it all. But again I tell you there is naught concerning love of which I would repent.”

“She would defy Heaven!” shouted Mother Kaufmann. “Let the elders take her away that the sight of her shall not breed sinful thoughts of love in the hearts of the maidens of Zanah.”

“Yea, lock her up until she cometh to her right mind,” said the old hag, waving her hands to invite the elders’ attention.

The uproar became deafening. Gerson Brandt stepped forward where he could stand between Walda and the mob. Through all the commotion Everett, with difficulty, had restrained himself from rushing out to protect Walda from the maddened colonists, but he realized that his appearance would but fan the flame of wrath and increase the confusion.

In the centre of the women’s division of the out-door chapel Mother Schneider and her daughter Gretchen had been sitting. Both had taken little part in the demonstration against the fallen prophetess. When Gerson Brandt was seen to move forward on the platform Mother Schneider said to the women near her:

“It is a sorry day when the women of Zanah are permitted to hear a maiden boast of a love that knoweth no bounds. It is an indecent confession that Walda Kellar maketh. Truly, she belongeth to the class of women that should be stoned.”

“It is such as she that cast wicked spells upon men. Behold, the elders fear to discipline her,” answered a mother, who that day had been promoted to the highest grade of the colony because she testified that she had found earthly love an unholy thing.

“She should be stoned! She should be stoned!” repeated the women; and the words passed from mouth to mouth until they reached a boy who loitered on the edge of the crowd. The boy picked up a flat stone, and, aiming it at Walda, threw it with all the force at his command. It sailed above the heads of the people. Gerson Brandt, with a quick movement, pulled Walda aside. The stone struck him on the forehead, making a deep gash, from which the blood coursed down his cheek. Walda, with a woman’s quick instinct of ministration, undid the kerchief around her neck, and gave it to Gerson Brandt.

“Stanch the blood with this,” she said, and when he made no effort to take it, she pressed it against his cheek.

Everett threw every consideration of prudence to the winds when he saw the stone hurled towards Walda. He pushed his way to the platform, but he had to fight his path through the crowd, which had been dazed at the sight of the blood on the school-master’s face. The men frowned at him sullenly, and some muttered low imprecations. Everett climbed to a place near Walda. When the people of Zanah saw him they shouted in angry protest. One burly man sought to lay hold of him, but he shook off the colonist and would have gone closer to Walda, but Gerson Brandt put out a restraining hand.

“Profane not this place with thy presence,” said the school-master, stepping between Everett and Walda. “Thou art a traitor. Thou hast betrayed the trust we put in thee. The brother of Zanah doeth well to hold thee back.”

All the pent-up emotion of the hour suddenly burst out as Gerson Brandt spoke. His gaunt form trembled with the strength of his passion.

“It is this man who should bear all the curses of Zanah,” he continued, turning to address the people. “We took him into close communion with us, and he hath repaid our faith in him by seeking to ensnare the love of our prophetess. He pledged me his honor, and he cared naught for his word given with the seal of a hand-clasp. He is a Judas who hath worked secretly for the undoing of Zanah—a Judas who hath cared for neither honor nor truth, so that he might win the woman whom he coveted. He deserveth not mercy. Let us cast him out of Zanah, and when he hath gone back to the wicked world to which he belongeth, the soul of Walda Kellar can be cleansed of the stain of an earthly love. Much prayer and fasting will restore her to fellowship with God.”

Everett moved close to Walda, and, laying his hand upon her arm, would have drawn her away from the infuriated mob. When he touched her, the sight of what seemed an assertion of his claim enraged Gerson Brandt. The school-master was imbued with the strength of a giant. He thrust Everett away with a mighty stroke of his arm.

“Seize this man!” he commanded. “Bind him, and put him out of the sight of the people!”

Four or five colonists sprang forward to obey Gerson Brandt’s orders, but Everett threw them off as lightly as if they were children.

“You have no right to touch me,” he said, towering above even the tallest. “I have broken no law, and I can hold you responsible if you deprive me of my liberty.”

The elders had gathered about Gerson Brandt and Walda. Wilhelm Kellar tottered to his daughter’s side, and implored her to surrender her will to the will of Zanah.

“Shame on you! Shame on you, men of Zanah!” cried Mother Kaufmann, who had climbed to the top of a high tree-stump. “Will ye let one man make cowards of you? Do the bidding of Gerson Brandt.”

Some of the women hissed, and a score of the mill-hands fought their way to the platform. Surrounding Everett, they closed in upon him. One, more daring than the rest, sought to seize him. Everett felled the colonist with a quick blow. The others endeavored to detain him, but none was a match for the athlete with muscles of steel. Knocking down two or three of the most aggressive of his assailants, Everett went to Walda, who trembled with fear for his safety. He drew her close to him. The quavering voice of Wilhelm Kellar sounded in their ears.

“Offend not the eyes of Zanah by parading your unseemly love,” he said, raising his cane as if he would strike the man of the world. The effort was too much for his feeble strength. He almost fell, and Walda knelt before him to support him with her outstretched arms. His indignation changed to grief, and, looking down at the daughter upon whom he had built all his ambition, he gave way to bitter lamentation.

“Oh, Lord, how have I deserved this punishment?” he cried.

Walda sobbed, still holding his frail body close to her. “Forgive me, father,” said she, looking up through her tears.

“Nay, ask not my forgiveness,” he answered, sternly. “Seek the forgiveness of the Lord, whom thou hast offended. Repent now, when it is not yet too late.”

“There is no repentance in my heart,” she said, rising to her feet. “This love must ever seem to me a holy thing.”

“Come away with me now, for I would talk to thee alone. Let us flee from the presence of this man and the people of Zanah,” pleaded Wilhelm Kellar.

“Yea, we will go away together,” Walda answered. She drew his arm through hers, and gently led him to the end of the platform. They slowly descended the steps and walked to the middle aisle, which offered them a chance of egress. As they passed the women, Mother Kaufmann hissed Walda, and taunts and jeers from the crowd assailed her. Wilhelm Kellar stopped. Raising himself on his cane, he said, with a tremendous effort:

“Wag not your tongues, ye women of Zanah. Ye have no right to heap insult upon her whom an hour ago ye were proud to hail as the prophetess.”

“Lo, this prophetess is but a Jezebel!” sneered Mother Kaufmann; and the women near her repeated the name “Jezebel! Jezebel!”

Wilhelm Kellar heard the insult to his daughter, and once more raising himself on his cane, he called out:

“Let your evil tongues be silent! There is none in Zanah who hath suffered the bitterness of disappointment that hath come to me, yet now do I forgive Walda Kellar, and bespeak for her your mercy and loving kindness.”

His voice died in a rattle in his throat. His gray head sank upon his breast. His arm loosened its tense hold upon Walda, and he fell in a heap at her feet.

Walda bent over him with a cry of such agony and fear that it pierced to the outer edge of the great assembly.

Raising his head, she looked upon his face, ghastly with the touch of death. In his eyes a last flicker of light faded as she stooped to pillow his head upon her bosom.

“Stephen, Stephen,” she called, “come to my father!”

Everett gently lifted the emaciated form of the elder, and, waving the crowd apart, laid his burden down upon the ground. A glance told him that a soul had gone out of Zanah.

“My father is dead! Dead!” shrieked Walda. Sinking on her knees, she wrung her hands and gave way to her grief.

“Wilhelm Kellar is dead,” Gerson Brandt announced, in solemn tones.

He stood for a moment on the edge of the platform, where he could see the white face upturned to the sky. Then his eyes fell upon Walda, who was weeping with her head supported on the shoulder of Everett. The school-master jumped from the platform, and, pointing to Everett, ordered that he be bound. With his own hands he loosed the stranger’s arms, and would have made the weeping girl lean upon him, but she proudly drew away.

“Brothers of Zanah, bind this man,” he said, repeating his command. “Through him, death and grievous trouble have come to the colony.” Everett waited, ready to defend himself, but the men hesitated before making a second attempt to carry out the elder’s orders.

“Let them bind thee, Stephen,” Walda said. “In the presence of death it is not meet there should be strife.”

“I want my liberty in order that I may defend you from these mad zealots,” Everett answered.

“Nay, Stephen, thou forgettest that I am in the Lord’s hand,” Walda replied, with a little quiver of the lips.

“I surrender myself as your prisoner,” Everett said, addressing Gerson Brandt. “It will not be necessary for you to have me tied. I give you my word that I will not try to escape.”

“It hath been shown to me that thou hast no regard for thy promises,” Gerson Brandt said, in an angry voice. “When thou art securely bound I shall have faith in thy word, and not till then.”

The insult kindled Everett’s anger. He would have retorted, but a sign from Walda compelled his silence. He let the men tie his hands behind him. They used the rope clumsily, and drew it so tightly over the flesh that it was painful. During the process Gerson Brandt looked on, and Walda stood with eyes upon the ground. The colonists waited quietly. The elders on the platform had resumed the air of stolidity which generally distinguished them. They watched the proceedings without interference. By common consent they permitted Gerson Brandt to take the initiative in dealing with the tragic climax of the Untersuchung.

“Let a bier be brought that the body of Wilhelm Kellar, who hath fallen into his last sleep, may be carried back to the village,” Gerson Brandt directed.

Diedrich Werther with three other colonists carried a heavy bier, over which was thrown a black pall, down the grassy aisle of the out-door chapel. Following it walked Hans Peter, carrying a gourd in his hand. The body of Wilhelm Kellar was lifted upon the bier and covered with the pall. When the men stooped to raise the bier, Adolph Schneider spoke:

“Behold, this day we have lost one of the leading men of Zanah. Wilhelm Kellar hath guided the business affairs of the colony. He hath been my strong arm. Lo! he is slain by the frowardness of the daughter upon whom he had centred too much affection. He hath suffered because he let her become an idol of earth. If she repenteth, so that she may become the prophetess of Zanah, her crime may be blotted out of the book of life.”

He paused, but the people made no demonstration.

“Repent, O daughter of Zanah!” the Herr Doktor shouted, in a voice intended to terrify all who heard it. “Repent now. Pledge thyself to put earthly love out of thy heart, and to serve the Lord forever.”

“Love that hath taken root in the heart cannot be plucked out at will. This love must remain always with me,” Walda replied.

“Let thy shame be upon thine own head,” shouted Adolph Schneider. “Thou art a woman possessed of Satan. Thou hast caused thy father’s death, and yet thou darest to defy the laws of God and the laws of Zanah.”

“She hath committed murder,” cried a woman. “The mark of Cain is set upon her forehead.”

The colonists surged around the place where Walda and Gerson Brandt stood. Straining at his bonds, Everett, who had been dragged back upon the platform and thrown before the vacant chair of the prophetess, shouted to the elders to preserve order. Seeing Walda’s peril, he demanded that he be released, and poured forth such a torrent of invective and entreaty that Adolph Schneider and Karl Weisel were moved to action. The two elders tried in vain to obtain a hearing. The crowd was clamoring for revenge. Infuriated by disappointment and goaded by superstition, the colonists pressed so closely upon Walda that she was in danger of being crushed.

Some of the women would have spat upon her, but Gerson Brandt pushed them away. Terrible in his anger, he widened the circle around the white-clad figure of the fallen prophetess, who seemed unmindful of the turmoil about her. She stood with bowed head, and her lips moved in prayer.

“Make way for the bier!” Gerson Brandt said. Diedrich Werther and his three companions lifted the bier, and slowly started down the grassy aisle. When Walda would have followed, one of the most turbulent of the colonists roughly shoved her back. Gerson Brandt threw out his arm with a protecting gesture, and in the surging of the crowd Walda was pressed close to him. His arms folded about her, and for one moment he felt her heart beating upon his. In that moment the fires of life that had long smouldered in him flamed up and illuminated his soul. In that moment came to him the knowledge that he, the elder of Zanah, had long been possessed of the earthly love against which he had preached so many years. For a few seconds the golden autumn day faded from his sight. He passed into a new existence. His divinity was unveiled to him. When the mist before his eyes cleared away he looked into Walda’s face, and, still clasping her close to his breast, said:

“Canst thou forgive me for mine anger, which hath brought upon thee much unnecessary trouble this day? Until this moment I have been blinded. I have done thee and him whom thou lovest a grievous wrong.”

“Thy provocation hath been great,” Walda answered. “Yet there is resentment in my heart since thou hast caused Stephen Everett to be bound.”

“Forgive me, and I will make reparation for mine offence,” he pleaded. “For the sake of the past, for thy father’s sake, bear no enmity against me.”

“Thou wilt see that no harm befalleth Stephen Everett?” she said. Unconscious of the tumult in the school-master’s heart, and indifferent to his touch, she thought only of the stranger in Zanah. The mob moved forward, and Gerson Brandt gently put Walda away from him.

“Let Walda Kellar follow the bier of her father,” he commanded.

Again the women hissed their fallen prophetess.

Raising her hands to heaven, Walda uttered the words:

“Lord, have mercy upon us, thy people in Zanah. Forgive us our transgressions.”

The colonists’ jeers were silenced. As Walda passed down the aisle, the majesty of her carriage and the exaltation that was written on her face cast a fear upon the people. One woman who had but a moment before uttered bitter gibes kissed the hem of the white garment of the fallen prophetess.

Hans Peter, who had been watching the proceedings from the limb of a tree, slid from his high seat and walked a few feet behind Walda.

A hush fell upon the multitude. Standing with uncovered head, Gerson Brandt waited until the bier disappeared among the trees and the last glimpse of Walda’s white-robed figure was obscured.

The distant bell of the meeting-house tolled. The sunset hour of prayer had come. Beneath the sky, dyed in crimson and purple, the people of Zanah bowed their heads.