XX

It was noontime when the colonists gathered in the meeting-house to

attend the funeral of Wilhelm Kellar. The bier, placed before the

platform of the elders, was covered with flowers—the late garden

blossoms of autumn. White dahlias and asters, intwined in wreaths,

almost concealed the lid of the coffin. The women, who wore gowns of

black calico, gathered solemnly on their side of the big, bare room. The

men stood in groups until the elders had taken their places on the

platform where the vacant chair of Wilhelm Kellar was draped in black.

This occupied the position formerly given to the chair of the

prophetess, which was pushed back and turned so that it faced the wall.

The bell tolled the age of the dead elder. When its fiftieth stroke had

died away Walda was brought in from the room where she had held her

vigil before the _Untersuchung_. Mother Werther and Mother Kaufmann

accompanied her. Her appearance caused a hush to fall upon the assembly,

and some of the women covered their eyes, for it was seen that over her

black gown was thrown the scarlet cloak, which betokened that her soul

was clothed in the garment of sin. It was the same cloak that Marta

Bachmann had worn during the time of her probation, and some of the

softer-hearted of the colony “mothers” prayed that the fallen prophetess

might follow in Marta Bachmann’s footsteps until she reached the height

of final repentance. The maidens of Zanah gazed on Walda with fascinated

eyes. A few were bold enough to hope that she might be able to leave

Zanah with the stranger whose worldly ways and physical beauty had

charmed even those who had never spoken to him. At the head of the

coffin a stool had been provided for Walda, and she sank upon it as if

overcome with sudden weakness. For a moment she bowed her black-capped

head in prayer, and then, looking unflinchingly into the faces of the

colonists, waited with courage for the service to begin. She was very

pale, and once she threw off the cloak, as if it smothered her. In a

second she remembered its significance, and drew it about her shoulders.

From his seat at one end of the platform Gerson Brandt, with pitying

eyes, looked upon Walda. His thin face had a pinched look, and from his

eyes had faded the last smouldering fires of youth and hope. He sat with

hands tensely clasped, except when, now and then, he pressed his thin

fingers to his temples, from which the long hair, touched with gray,

fell back to his shoulders.

Karl Weisel read a long chapter from the Bible, and then a meek elder

offered a prayer. Adolph Schneider next told the people of their dead

brother’s services to the colony. His thick, droning voice, monotonous

in its cadences, did not hold Walda’s attention, until presently she

knew he was speaking of her and accusing her of unfaithfulness to Zanah.

She listened with downcast eyes, her lithe body quivering with emotion,

but she was too proud to show the pain she suffered. She choked back the

tears and prayed for strength.

At last the funeral address was finished. The bier was carried out into

the golden sunshine. Walda rose as if to follow it, but one of the

elders detained her.

“Is it meet that one who wears the scarlet cloak should walk first

behind the bier?” he asked.

Gerson Brandt answered by going to Walda’s side, pulling her arm through

his, and waving the people aside.

“He hath touched Walda Kellar’s hand, and he is no kin to her!” cried

Mother Kaufmann; but the school-master walked on as if he had not heard

her. Tenderly he supported Walda’s faltering footsteps. The procession

formed behind them, the men and women walking on opposite sides of the

village street, while Gerson Brandt and Walda kept in the middle of the

grass-grown road, directly behind Wilhelm Kellar’s coffin.

“Gerson Brandt, thou art, indeed, a friend in mine hour of trouble,”

Walda said, when they had reached the strip of woods and the bier had

been put down in order that its bearers might rest.

“Until death thou wilt be ever safe in my heart,” the school-master

answered, solemnly.

“Pray that I may have fortitude when I see the earth cover my father’s

body,” she whispered, as the procession started again, and he pressed

her arm to give her the assurance of his aid.

The school-master could have prayed that the walk to the graveyard might

last forever. He knew that, in all the coming years which might belong

to him on earth, he might never again touch her or be close to her. He

trembled in the excess of his joy. He felt a great strength taking

possession of him. They came to the lake, and he looked out upon it as

it lay undisturbed by wave or ripple. Around the water’s hem the

yellowing willows dipped into the placid pool. The sumach flamed among

the oak-trees.

“When thou art gone from me out into the world I shall pray that thy

soul shall be untroubled as is this lake to-day,” he murmured, softly.

“Ah! To-day I feel that I must remain here in Zanah to make atonement

for my betrayal of the people’s trust,” she answered.

The tempter had spoken to him for the last time, and so he made haste to

say:

“Thy love leads the way of thy duty. Harbor no longer the thought of

sacrificing thyself to no purpose.”

They reached the high gate of the graveyard. The bier was carried to the

rise of ground where Marta Bachmann’s burial-place had been selected

many years before. A grave had been hollowed out near that of the

prophetess of revered memory. The colonists gathered around it. Walda

and the school-master stood on one side and the elders on the other

while the coffin was lowered. The simple one, who had not been seen at

the meeting-house or in the procession, looked on from a place of

vantage on the gravestone of Marta Bachmann.

Adolph Schneider announced that there would be a reading of the

Scriptures. An awkward pause followed. It was discovered that the Bible

had been forgotten. The elders held a conference, while the villagers

waited stolidly.

“Hans Peter shall be sent back for the Holy Book,” announced the Herr

Doktor, motioning to the simple one.

Hans Peter advanced with slow steps.

“There is a Bible here,” he said.

“Bring it quickly, then,” ordered the elder.

“It can be brought only after an understanding,” answered the simple

one. “Gerson Brandt’s lost Bible is hidden here. It belongeth now to the

stranger in Zanah. If it is the will of him who made it gay with colors

that it be given to the stranger I will bring the Bible forth.”

“Would the fool make terms with the elders of Zanah? Bring forth the

Bible,” commanded the Herr Doktor.

Hans Peter did not stir.

“Dost thou defy me?” asked Adolph Schneider.

The simple one made no sign that he heard.

“Speak,” urged Gerson Brandt. “Stephen Everett shall have the Bible.”

“When the promise is given that the elders will let me deliver it to the

owner I will find it,” said Hans Peter.

The promise was given, after a brief consultation of the elders. Hans

Peter went back to Marta Bachmann’s gravestone, and from beneath it

pulled out a stout wooden box. This he opened with some difficulty, and

from it produced the Bible, which was wrapped in oil-cloth. Gerson

Brandt’s heart gave a throb of joy when he saw it.

“Bring it here to me,” he commanded, and the simple one, almost

staggering under its weight, obeyed the wish of the school-master.

The people whispered among themselves, and the elders looked sullenly at

the volume about which there had been so many conjectures.

“I will read from the Scriptures,” announced Gerson Brandt, motioning to

the village fool to help him hold the heavy book. He turned to the

fourteenth chapter of St. John, and, scanning a page more beautiful in

its illumination than all the rest, he began to read the message of

peace. After he had finished he closed the Sacred Book. One of the

elders prayed, and while the people’s heads were bowed Hans Peter stole

away with the Bible.

Diedrich Werther began to shovel the earth into the grave. Walda, with a

sudden feeling of horror, clutched Gerson Brandt’s arm, upon which she

buried her face. The school-master forgot the people of Zanah. He leaned

over her, whispering words of comfort and strength. Half fearfully he

touched her on the shoulder, and bade her remember that the Lord worketh

in wondrous ways. He told her that the Father in heaven had planned for

her deliverance from Zanah.

The people had begun to leave the graveyard before Walda was calm. Two

of the colony “mothers” waited for her, and she bade the school-master

return to Zanah, leaving her alone with the women.

Gerson Brandt hesitated, loath to walk away from the place that had

become to him one of the outer courts of heaven.

“I would pray here for a time,” Walda said, “and thou shalt be

remembered in my petitions.”

He looked at her, not trusting himself to speak.

He led her close to the new-made grave and left her there. Not until he

had closed the graveyard gate behind him did he dare to look back.

Gazing with straining eyes he beheld the prophetess as she lay face

downward on the ground, with the scarlet cloak still wrapped around her.

From a place a little distant the colony women watched her.