“I will go for Diedrich Werther,” the boy said. “It is the sunset hour, and the men and women of Zanah are busy getting all their work done before evening prayer.” Hans Peter’s German accent reminded the stranger to ask whether it was true that few people in Zanah knew any tongue except the German. He had to make the question very plain, and then Hans Peter said: “It is only the fool of Zanah and the great men like the Herr Doktor that know English.” He appeared to be thinking hard for a moment, and after a pause he explained: “The English makes the wickedness of the world easy to learn. It is only the great men, who can put aside temptation, and the fool, whose soul is accursed, that cannot be harmed by it.” The man gave the simple one a glance of surprise. He looked into the boy’s face for a moment. “I am afraid the people of Zanah are not good Americans,” he said. “English is the tongue of the United States, and all should speak it, Hans Peter.” Hans Peter shook his head. “Some of our young men have learned the English and they have forsaken the ways of the colony to go out into the world. They have listened to Satan, and Zanah hath seen them no more. Two of our girls ran away. The elders worry much about the people, for it is hard to keep out evil things with the railway so near. We are forbidden to make images of anything on earth, but colored pictures are sometimes brought to Zanah.” “The elders must have a hard task, indeed, if they would keep out sin, Hans Peter.” The stranger laughed. “I am afraid the great world will swallow up the colony some day.” “The elders will be guided, sir. Zanah is waiting for Walda Kellar to speak with the voice of prophecy. She will be the inspired one who will guide the people of the colony.” “Who is Walda Kellar?” asked the stranger. But the simple one was silent. The question was repeated. “The fool hath talked too much,” said Hans Peter. “Go call the landlord of the inn,” commanded the stranger, turning to seat himself in a splint-bottomed chair that stood in a corner of the veranda. Diedrich Werther, the landlord, was slow in answering the summons of his chance guest. When he made his appearance he walked with deliberation. He was a short, stout man, with a red face, and he had a wisp of sandy hair in the middle of his forehead. His trousers, supported by knitted suspenders, were of such generous size that they reached nearly to his arm-pits. He wore a blue shirt and carpet slippers. He received his guest with a lack of hospitality which showed that visitors were of small importance in his estimation. After making a bow, which included the scraping of one of his carpet slippers as he bent his head, he looked at the stranger with unwinking eyes that revealed not the slightest sign of cordiality. “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.