Walda | Page 3

I have dinner here?" the stranger inquired.
The landlord shook his head. Dinner was at midday, but a special
supper would be made ready after evening prayer. The stranger could
rest in the big chair.
The church-bell rang out in solemn tones. It had not sounded twice
before the street became alive. From every door issued men, women,
and children. Gate latches clicked, and soon a silent, solemn line of
villagers passed the inn. From his corner in the porch the stranger
looked on unobserved. All the men were more or less like Diedrich
Werther. They wore the baggy, ill-fitting trousers and the blue shirt
which made the host of the inn of Zanah look like the figures on beer
mugs. The women had on gowns of blue calico, straight and full in the
skirts, and made with plain, gathered waists, over which were folded
three-cornered kerchiefs. Black hoods, with untied strings, covered
their hair. Most of the women of Zanah were stout of body and stolid of
face. They walked on the opposite side of the street from the men.
Among them were many young girls, with the beauty of face that

health and innocence give. The church-bell ceased its ringing. Peering
out between the vines, the stranger saw the meeting-house on the hill
beyond a bridge on the other side of the square where the street began
to climb the hill. One by one the villagers passed through its door.
The bell rang again. Into the little square before the inn came a man
different from the others. He was tall and spare of figure. His oddly cut
clothing fitted his body with snugness. A broad-brimmed, gray felt hat
shaded a sensitive face marked with strong lines. Long hair, which fell
over the wide collar of his coat, gave him the look of one who belonged
to a past generation. Not old, and yet not young, this man of Zanah had
an unusual beauty of countenance that bespoke patience and gentleness.
At his heels trooped a dozen boys who quickly surrounded the well.
Standing on moss-covered stones, they took turns dipping water from a
gourd fastened to the curb.
The man of Zanah stood with his face turned in the direction whence he
had come. Suddenly he doffed the gray felt hat and waited with
uncovered head while three women approached the well. Two were like
the many who had gone by within the quarter-hour. The third was
young, and her beauty was of such rare quality that the stranger stepped
out to the edge of the porch that he might better see her features. She
was of more than medium height, and she walked with a majestic
bearing. Her face, uplifted to the sky, was lighted by the sunset glow.
Over her fair hair, which fell in two long braids below her waist, she
wore a cap of white lawn, and the kerchief crossed upon her bosom was
white. She appeared to be unconscious of the presence of the man of
Zanah until her gown touched him. She turned her head and smiled
with such sweetness and such friendliness that the stranger, watching
her, felt a pang of envy. The man bent his head reverently, and the
children stopped their play to make obeisance to her. When she had
passed, the man of Zanah stood motionless for a moment. He was
suddenly startled from his reverie by the simple one, who ran from the
inn and grasped his hand.
For a third time the bell rang. The man of Zanah patted the fool on the
head and turned towards the meeting-house. After he had gone over the

bridge, the stranger hastened across the little square to the place where
Hans Peter was left standing alone.
"Who is the man that has just gone up the street?" he inquired.
The village fool said it was Gerson Brandt, the school-master.
"And who was the girl the one with the white cap?"
Hans Peter pretended not to hear.
"Was that the one who is to be your prophetess?"
Hans Peter was silent. There was a look of cunning in his eyes.
"Answer my question, Hans Peter," said the stranger, with some
impatience.
"The elders say wise men ask questions that fools may not answer,"
replied the simple one, and then he ran away across the bridge.

II
THE village of Zanah awoke at sunrise. Looking from the front
window of the inn, the stranger, Stephen Everett, saw the quaint folk
moving up and down the little street. In the porches of a near-by
kitchen women were preparing breakfast. There was a strange quiet that
at first oppressed the visitor from the outside world. The men and
women were silent; the children walked with decorous steps; there was
no unseemly laughter.
It