“You had better go back to the village,” Everett advised, as he with difficulty restrained a laugh.
“Nay, it is thou who hast no occasion to linger near the cemetery,” the simple one replied. “I have come to wait for Walda Kellar.”
Another gust of wind, even stronger than the preceding one, carried Everett’s hat away, and while he searched for it in the dark a tree was uprooted. It fell with a crash that came from the direction of Marta Bachmann’s grave, towards which Everett ran in a frenzy of fear lest Walda had been injured.
“Stephen, Stephen,” he heard her call. She took a few steps towards him, and in a moment his arms were around her.
“You are not hurt, are you?” he said, putting his right hand upon her head, and drawing it close to him until it rested on his shoulder. He felt her tremble, and he said:
“You are quite safe now. I will take you home.”
The simple one had come near. Without glancing towards Stephen and Walda, he went to Marta Bachmann’s grave, and, climbing over the branches of the fallen tree, began to search for something. Everett gently put Walda away from him lest the simple one should notice them. Then, taking her by the hand, he led her through the hedge and along the road until they came to the open place by the lake.
“Stephen, I have shown a grievous weakness and lack of faith,” said Walda, catching her breath, and drawing her hand from his. “The prophetess of Zanah should not know fear, and yet I felt a strength and comfort in thine aid that my prayers have never given me.”
Walda raised her face to him, and again he put his arms around her.
“Walda, I mean to take care of you always,” he said. “I shall never let you go. Cannot you understand that it is meant you should belong to me?” He kissed her on the lips, and, abashed and trembling, she drew away from him.