Before Everett could reply, Gerson Brandt entered the room. The school-master came towards them with a stern look upon his face.
“Why dost thou talk here with the prophetess of Zanah?” he said, addressing Everett. “Thou canst have nothing to say that will be worthy of her hearing, since she is close to heaven and thou art of the wicked world.”
His long hair was wet as it lay upon his shoulders, and his thin face was deeply lined.
“We were talking of love—earthly love,” Walda said, leaving her place beside Everett. “Gerson Brandt, he hath just told me that he loveth.”
The school-master’s tall, gaunt form swayed beneath the burden of a great emotion.
“Tell me, sir, thou hast not dared to speak of love to the prophetess of Zanah?” he cried.
“Yes, I have spoken of love,” said Everett, going to the farther side of the fireplace. “Yes, I have spoken of love.” He was again the cool, well-poised man of the world. Carelessly he took up an old pair of bellows, as he added: “But you need not fear. The prophetess of Zanah did not care to hear about my love.”
“Walda, thou wouldst not listen to any man who would dare to speak of love to thee, wouldst thou?” Gerson Brandt asked, in an agony of fear.
“Disturb not thyself, Gerson Brandt,” Walda answered. “What harm can there be in Stephen Everett’s declaration that he loveth a woman out in the world?”
An expression of relief passed over the face of the school-master. Beads of perspiration stood upon his white forehead. He was shaking so that he had to steady himself against the end of the settle.