“Continue to the end of the chapter,” said Brant, so the reader went on.
There is a sound. They do not hear it, but the door of the bedchamber behind them opens ever so little. They do not see it, but between door and lintel something white thrusts itself, a woman’s white face crowned with black hair, and set in it two evil, staring eyes. Surely, when first he raised his head in Eden, Satan might have worn such a countenance as this. It cranes itself forward till the long, thin neck seems to stretch; then suddenly a stir or a movement alarms it, and back the face draws like the crest of a startled snake. Back it draws, and the door closes again.
The chapter is read, the prayer is prayed, and strange may seem the answer to that prayer, an answer to shake out faith from the hearts of men; men who are impatient, who do not know that as the light takes long in travelling from a distant star, so the answer from the Throne to the supplication of trust may be long in coming. It may not come to-day or to-morrow. It may not come in this generation or this century; the prayer of to-day may receive its crown when the children’s children of the lips that uttered it have in their turn vanished in the dust. And yet that Divine reply may in no wise be delayed; even as our liberty of this hour may be the fruit of those who died when Dirk van Goorl and Hendrik Brant walked upon the earth; even as the vengeance that but now is falling on the Spaniard may be the reward of the deeds of shame that he worked upon them and upon their kin long generations gone. For the Throne is still the Throne, and the star is still the star; from the one flows justice and from the other light, and to them time and space are naught.
Dirk finished the chapter and closed the Book.
“It seems that you have your answer, Brother,” said Brant quietly.
“Yes,” replied Dirk, “it is written large enough:—‘The unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband . . . how knowest thou, O man, whether thou shalt save thy wife?’ Had the Apostle foreseen my case he could not have set the matter forth more clearly.”
“He, or the Spirit in him, knew all cases, and wrote for every man that ever shall be born,” answered Brant. “This is a lesson to us. Had you looked sooner you would have learned sooner, and mayhap much trouble might have been spared. As it is, without doubt you must make haste and speak to her at once, leaving the rest with God.”
“Yes,” said Dirk, “as soon as may be, but there is one thing more; ought I tell her all the truth?”
“I should not be careful to hide it, friend, and now, good night. No, do not come to the door with me. Who can tell, there may be watchers without, and it is not wise that we should be seen together so late.”
When his cousin and new-found friend had gone Dirk sat for a while, till the guttering tallow lights overhead burned to the sockets indeed. Then, taking the candle from the snail-adorned holder, he lit it, and, having extinguished those in the chandeliers, went into his bedroom and undressed himself. The Bible he returned to its hiding-place and closed the panel, after which he blew out the light and climbed into the tall bed.