"Why have you never come before?" he asked. "Had you no doubts to be set at rest?" He spoke so quietly that her nervousness forsook her, and with a swift impulse she glanced up at him.
"I—I think I was afraid," she said, candidly. "You see, I am not exactly one of the others—"
"You did not quite believe that the One you had waited for had really come?" His voice was low and tinged with some inscrutable meaning.
"Oh no! No; it was not that. Before you came, I confess I was sceptical; I confess I did not believe that any one would come, that there was any truth—any real meaning—in the sect. But then—when you did come—"
The Prophet lifted his head.
"When I did come?" he asked, sharply.
"The whole thing was different—"
"The whole thing was different?" he repeated, slowly and meditatively. By a curious process of suggestion and recollection, something of his own experiences in the realm of mental upheaval rose with her words. He studied the pale face and brilliant eyes with a fresh and more intimate interest.
"The whole thing was different?" he said once more, in his slow, deep voice.
The warm color flooded her face. "Yes," she admitted. "Yes. You seemed the one real person—the one sane thing in the whole ceremony. I felt—I knew that you were—strong." She paused, alarmed at her own timidity; and again their eyes met.