Читать книгу Walda. A Novel онлайн

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“If thou wouldst see the books, come with me to the school-master,” said Schneider. “Gerson Brandt was an artist before he came into the colony, fifteen years ago. He hath a rare gift in the laying on of colors, and he hath made some of the books of Zanah good to look at.”

They walked along the quiet street, crossed the rustic bridge, and climbed the little hill to the meeting-house, which was a low stone building covered with vines. In place of the steeple a modest little belfry rose above the peaked roof. Beyond the meeting-house, and separated from it by a stone wall, was the school-house, such a rambling, weather-beaten wooden building as any artist would delight in. It was entered from a latticed porch with long seats on either side of the door. There was a garden in front of it—a well-kept garden, with trim walks and well-weeded flower-beds. Over the porch a sturdy rose-bush climbed. The hinged windows were thrown open and the buzz of children’s voices could be heard. Suddenly all sounds were hushed. Everett and the Herr Doktor ascended the wide steps, and as they were about to push open the door a woman’s voice rose in a hymn. It was a voice clear and sweet, and its minor cadence was sustained with wonderful power. The words were German, and the tune was monotonous, but the man from the outside world was strangely moved by the melody. Everett uncovered his head and listened reverently. Adolph Schneider leaned against the door-frame, smoking, as if he did not hear. When the hymn was ended Everett asked, in a low tone: