“If thou hadst loved any man I should have sorrowed more than all the colony, for I have longed to see thee spared the pangs and pains that love brings.”
“Doth love never bring happiness?”
“The woman who loveth must suffer much,” declared Gerson Brandt.
“But women are glad to suffer for love.”
In Walda’s eyes shone the light of a new-born courage, and Gerson Brandt, catching some of the spirit that had taken possession of her, answered:
“Walda, it passeth understanding that thou shouldst speak thus of love now, when thou hast gone forever beyond the reach of temptation. Thy mood doth confound me.”
He went near to her, and, standing before her, studied her face.
“In thine eyes I behold a mystery,” he said, presently, with a tremor in his voice. “Thou hast lost the essence of childhood that lingered with thee until—was it yesterday or to-day that thou didst lose it?”
“The world hath been different to me since the sun set yesterday.” Walda spoke the words softly, and Gerson Brandt beheld in her face a radiance which made him ashamed of the vague suspicions that had sent a chill to his heart.
“Verily, the spirit of prophecy hath descended upon thee. Thou hast come into the full possession of the divine gift.” He drew away from her, and looked at her in awe.