This last was merely a sort of aside to himself. But Egholm felt his doubts of the Evangelist’s honesty suddenly grown stronger than ever.
Those artful round eyes of his—and the queer look in them when he had said good-night that evening outside Hotel Postgaarden. What could one expect from a man who went off to play cards at twelve o’clock at night at hotels? And what sort of companions could he find for the same? “Brethren in the Lord,” indeed! It was an expensive place, too, that one could hardly expect the poorer Brethren to frequent. Wait a bit, though: Postgaarden ... wasn’t it there the commercial traveller man was going to meet old Karlsen that same evening?... To sum up, then, nothing more nor less than a neat piece of spying, and carrying the whole tale to his father immediately after! After which, of course, he had simply been sent round to all these simple souls, to set their minds against him, Egholm....
It would be a hard fight now.
Fru Westergaard and Mirre, the dog, passed by. Egholm rose and bowed, but received only a half-glance in return. Fru Westergaard made her way through to her privileged chair, and sat down carefully, arranging her skirts about the dog’s head.
Her arrival was like that of the bride at a wedding, the signal for proceedings to begin. At the same moment, the door of the little room opened, and a little troop of men—looking, to tell the truth, more like mutes at a funeral than anything to do with weddings—marched in close order up on to the stage. At their head the Angel, wrapped in his beard, which seemed alive with electric tension. After him marched the Prophet from Copenhagen—a quondam priest by the name of Finck—together with the Deacon, Potter Kaasmose, whose long hair was plastered down and cut as if to the rim of one of his own pots. Of the remaining five, Egholm knew only two—Dideriksen, the Apostle, and Karlsen, the Evangelist. Dideriksen was a very pious man, as was apparent, for instance, in his habit of constantly stroking downwards over his face. Karlsen had put on a glaring red tie, which gave him a martial touch. He looked as if he were gloating over some great disaster. The stairs had been widened with a further consignment of beer boxes, so that the procession could mount the platform in something like order.
A breathless silence reigned among the congregation when Angel Karlsen began to pray, while the remaining Elders seated themselves in a half-circle. The Copenhagen Prophet, evidently on easy and familiar terms with platforms, thrust his coat-tails carelessly aside, polished his gold pince-nez with a handkerchief of brilliant whiteness, and did other things hitherto unknown in those surroundings. Young Karlsen, for instance—not to speak of Potter Kaasmose—would have been utterly unable to imitate the elegant movement with which he flung one leg over the other, after first pulling up the legs of his trousers. He had chosen his seat on the extreme right, like the first violin in an orchestra. His interesting appearance could hardly fail to draw off some attention from the prayer, but was no doubt edifying in itself.
“Amen,” said Angel Karlsen.
“And having now concluded this prayer which Thou Thyself hast taught us, we further pray that this our ancient congregation, founded by St. John the Apostle, and lasting even unto this day in despite of the deluge of sin and the drought of indifference, may likewise henceforward so prevail against the ravages of the wolf that steals abroad by night, that neither sheep nor lamb may fall a prey.
“All ye who were present here last evening know what I mean. But for those others who do not, I will briefly set forth the matter which has called us Elders to gather in conclave here to-night.”
Egholm sat gasping as if half stunned. “Present here last evening!...” Then they had called a meeting, without his knowledge—a meeting where they had betrayed him and his great cause, and sowed the seed of hatred against him in all the hearts of those who had no judgment of their own. In the midst of his anger, indignation, and fear, Egholm yet tried to frame a prayer for strength and courage. But he could do no more than mumble helplessly: “I’m in the right, you know I am. Lord God, you know I’m in the right.”