Читать книгу Walda. A Novel онлайн

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“Do you permit travellers to stay at your inn?” inquired the guest, first in English, but he received no response, and he had to resort to the German picked up in his student days at Heidelberg.

“Ja, ja,” said Werther, and he motioned to Hans Peter to carry the valise inside the inn.

“And can I have dinner here?” the stranger inquired.

The landlord shook his head. Dinner was at mid-day, 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.