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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.

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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.