“Ah, the school-master is a second father to Walda Kellar, I suppose?” he said, presently, casting a furtive glance at the fool.
“Nay, he hath not years enough to make it right he should love her as a father,” declared Hans Peter, nodding his head. “The simple one hath been taught that love is a wicked thing, but there is in Gerson Brandt’s heart something that may be love, like that with which he worships angels.”
“Again I tell you, Hans Peter, you are the wisest of all the colonists in Zanah,” said Everett. “There, go about your errands.”
“But thou wilt promise not to buy the Bible, even if it is ever found?” said Hans Peter, coming close to Everett and lowering his voice.
“Yes, yes; you have my word for it. I shall not buy it unless it is to aid Gerson Brandt,” Everett replied. “And, Hans Peter, give me your hand. I pledge my word.”
The fool hesitatingly put out his fat, work-hardened hand, and Everett gave it a hearty clasp.
IX
Wilhelm Kellar lay propped up in the four-posted bedstead that stood in his little alcove. His thin face showed the effect of his illness, and the hand that played with the flowered coverlet was thin to the point of translucency. His long, white hair was brushed straight back from his high forehead; his eyes, which had sunk deep into their sockets, wandered restlessly.
“Walda, where art thou?” he said, in a thick, indistinct voice. Walda pushed back the chintz curtains that divided the alcove from the larger room, and, kneeling beside her father, took one of his hands in hers.
“I have been thinking of the Untersuchung, daughter,” said the sick man, “and I pray that I may be able to be present when the spirit descends upon thee.”