“On the contrary,” replied Kalkmann instantly, rising from his chair and ignoring the hand the Englishman had stretched out to him, “it is we who have to thank you; and we do so most gratefully and sincerely.”
And at the same moment at least half a dozen of the Brothers took up their position between himself and the door.
“You are very good to say so,” Harris replied as firmly as he could manage, noticing this movement out of the corner of his eye, “but really I had no conception that—my little chance visit could have afforded you so much pleasure.” He moved another step nearer the door, but Bruder Schliemann came across the room quickly and stood in front of him. His attitude was uncompromising. A dark and terrible expression had come into his face.
“But it was not by chance that you came, Bruder Harris,” he said so that all the room could hear; “surely we have not misunderstood your presence here?” He raised his black eyebrows.
“No, no,” the Englishman hastened to reply. “I was—I am delighted to be here. I told you what pleasure it gave me to find myself among you. Do not misunderstand me, I beg.” His voice faltered a little, and he had difficulty in finding the words. More and more, too, he had difficulty in understanding their words.
“Of course,” interposed Bruder Kalkmann in his iron bass, “we have not misunderstood. You have come back in the spirit of true and unselfish devotion. You offer yourself freely, and we all appreciate it. It is your willingness and nobility that have so completely won our veneration and respect.” A faint murmur of applause ran round the room. “What we all delight in—what our great Master will especially delight in—is the value of your spontaneous and voluntary——”
He used a word Harris did not understand. He said “Opfer.” The bewildered Englishman searched his brain for the translation, and searched in vain. For the life of him he could not remember what it meant. But the word, for all his inability to translate it, touched his soul with ice. It was worse, far worse, than anything he had imagined. He felt like a lost, helpless creature, and all power to fight sank out of him from that moment.
“It is magnificent to be such a willing——” added Schliemann, sidling up to him with a dreadful leer on his face. He made use of the same word—“Opfer.”
God! What could it all mean? “Offer himself!” “True spirit of devotion!” “Willing,” “unselfish,” “magnificent!” Opfer, Opfer, Opfer! What in the name of heaven did it mean, that strange, mysterious word that struck such terror into his heart?
He made a valiant effort to keep his presence of mind and hold his nerves steady. Turning, he saw that Kalkmann’s face was a dead white. Kalkmann! He understood that well enough. Kalkmann meant “Man of Chalk”; he knew that. But what did “Opfer” mean? That was the real key to the situation. Words poured through his disordered mind in an endless stream—unusual, rare words he had perhaps heard but once in his life—while “Opfer,” a word in common use, entirely escaped him. What an extraordinary mockery it all was!