“Would I be admitted to the meeting-house?” he asked Diedrich Werther, who was putting a long-tailed coat over a faded blue-gingham shirt.
“Ja, ja; if thou desirest to attend a service of much solemnity, come with me,” the innkeeper answered.
The meeting-house was crowded when they entered. Its interior was as devoid of ornament as its exterior. The bare, white walls were broken at regular intervals with small-paned, clear glass windows, which let in but little light on a gloomy day. A broad middle aisle led straight to a platform upon which sat the thirteen elders, for Everett was astonished to see that Wilhelm Kellar had been carried in his arm-chair from his room in the near-by school-house. The men occupied rude benches on the right side of the meeting-house, and the women sat on the left. The children were placed in front, the boys on the men’s side and the girls on the women’s. On a dais in the middle of the elders’ platform was a heavy oaken chair.
A few moments after Everett’s entrance a group of colonists, who still lingered at the door, separated to allow some one to pass in. A hush fell upon the assemblage, for Walda Kellar was walking up the aisle. Over her blue gown she wore a long cloak with a pointed hood that she put back from her head as she moved slowly forward. The damp air had caused her hair to curl in many unruly ringlets about her forehead, and her pure skin had the peculiar clearness and transparency that a rainy day imparts to a delicate complexion. Everett could see only her profile. There was a majesty in her carriage, a consciousness of power in her pose, that made her seem far off from him. His heart beat wildly as he looked at her, and when the villagers knelt in acknowledgment of her presence, he obeyed the impulse of worship, and bent forward with a despairing humility in his heart. He, to whom prayer had long ceased to be a daily habit, breathed his heart’s sincere desire in a petition that his love might be given its reward.
When Everett raised his eyes again Walda had ascended the platform, and had taken her place on the steps in front of the chair which it was plain was the seat reserved for the prophetess. She had thrown aside her cloak, and she sat with her hands folded in her lap. Adolph Schneider spoke, in German, the words of a droning invocation. He left the front of the platform, and Everett was surprised to see Walda come forward as if she were about to speak. Instead of making an address, she began to sing a monotonous hymn, to which her rich voice lent a glorious melody.
While Walda sang, the man of the world listened in breathless awe. Her voice thrilled with the diapason of hope. It rose in triumphant notes, and then fell with a softened cadence. His soul went out to hers, but in the tense moment that followed her hymn he felt as if she were far away from him. Her purity rebuked the passion of love in him, and yet he could scarcely restrain himself from the impulse to claim her there before all Zanah. She went back to her place on the steps before the chair of the prophetess, which she was to occupy before another week had passed.
Adolph Schneider commanded the colonists to listen with undivided attention to what he had to say to them. It was the Day of Warning, when all who felt they were not prepared for the Untersuchung would make confession. If there was any man or woman who desired to ask for promotion in the colony, the time had come to show reason for a desire for advancement.
A tall, large-boned woman rose from her place far back in the congregation.
“I would seek advancement to the first grade of the colony,” she said.
“What is thy ground for making this request? Why dost thou believe that thou art worthy?” the Herr Doktor asked.