The entire flock seemed shaping its course towards the sun, in the person of Angel Karlsen, who was up on the platform praying and preaching, tearful and affecting as ever.
“As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, O God.
“My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God; when shall I come and appear before God?”
He wrung his hands in a great agony, and hid his face.
“My tears have been my meat day and night....”
Egholm was touched. He, too, knew what it was to weep for meat.
Karlsen the Elder closed with the Lord’s Prayer; and another hymn was sung.
“Now, it’s me again,” whispered the young Evangelist. “You see me let her have it this time.”
His speech seemed actually to have gained force and balance; there was an evident purpose in it. The opening was weak, perhaps, for here he still clung to his “Dear friends” from force of habit, though every word was addressed to Fru Westergaard only.
“And now, in conclusion, I thank you, my dear friends, for coming here among us the first time. I hope, dear friends, it may not be the last. In the midst of all your wealth and luxury and manifold delights out at the villa, you have yet felt the lack of a word—the word of the Spirit. Yes, dear friends, it is even so. You go to church and you go back home again, and your need is not fulfilled.