It was the prophetess, not the woman, who spoke. Walda had forgotten all the vague alarm. She was looking upon Stephen as a new disciple of Zanah whom she was glad to welcome into the fold.
“Yes, I have a new altar upon which I am willing to sacrifice all my old habits, my previous interests,” he confessed. “To it I bring the incense of love and service and loyalty. Before it I feel my own unworthiness. Walda, I am but an ordinary man, one who has been content to live for the day. Since I came to Zanah, my future years have a new meaning.”
“When a man turneth his footsteps towards heaven, then, indeed, the future is glorified. Henceforth thou wilt press onward towards the gates of heaven.”
“But, Walda, I may find the gates closed, after all. Don’t you know it is you who hold the key?”
“Nay, thou art almost blasphemous. I can only point the way.”
They sat there silent for a few minutes. The twilight was gathering. The shadows of evening closed out Zanah and all the earth. A soft wind rippled the lake, which broke in tiny waves at their feet.
“Walda, you who are so wise in the knowledge of things that pertain to heaven are ignorant of many of the fundamental principles of life here upon earth. Cannot you understand that at this very moment I am like a wayfarer standing at the gate of paradise?”
Involuntarily he tightened the clasp of his hand, and love, sleeping in the heart of the woman, was suddenly disturbed.
Walda drew her hand away, and, rising to her feet, looked at Everett with fear in her face.
“To-night thou dost speak in parables, Stephen,” she said. “To-night thou dost cause me to tremble before thee. Let me go to the grave of Marta Bachmann, where I can pray until my spirit is soothed.”