“I, too, obey,” said Christianson hurriedly. “I will come Saturday.”
“Saturday!” Björk’s burning impatience blew the end of the week to the end of the world. “I tell you to-morrow will be too late! It must be to-day. It must be this hour.”
“Why?” demanded the herder, but he, too, was on his feet.
“Ha! You will ask questions! No wonder the angel comes to me.” Again he turned about and rushed at the door. Christianson intercepted him. Björk, with a convulsive movement, flung him off.
“The voice said, ‘This is the hour you have prayed for, but if it passes in idleness, pray no more—pray no more!’” Björk’s voice rang out with a tragic authority. “‘For this is the hour when your feet should be shod with swiftness and your hands be full of cunning.’ It was the voice said so.” Björk’s fingers were on the latch. “Me—I obey.” He opened the door.
“Come, Hjalmar,” said Christianson.
“‘Brethren,’ he said, ‘the angel of the Lord has been with me. He has shown me great riches’”