Egholm drew himself up and sought to catch Fru Westergaard's eye. He did not manage it, but let off his bow all the same. Only the incorrigible photographer sat swinging his legs on the vaulting-horse, with an expression of cold disapproval on his face.
Angel Karlsen stood by the three steps, ready, like another St. Peter, to receive the approaching soul. He took both the lady's hands and pressed them warmly.
"There's rejoicing here on earth and in the mansions of the Lord," he said, with emotion, "at the coming of this our new disciple." When he spoke, his great white beard went up and down, as if emphasising his words.
"And now the usual word of thanksgiving. Sit down here in front, _Frue_."
The new disciple was still talking nervously about the dog--it was leaving footmarks all over the place, but then, you know, in such weather.... She had galoshes for it, really, only to-night....
She moved to sit down, but the others rose hurriedly as she did so, and the bench rocked.
No, no, she couldn't sit there--no, not there; she couldn't. No....
Fru Westergaard allowed herself the luxury of some eccentricities. She had remained unmarried until her six-and-fortieth year.
Egholm had been prepared for the trouble about the seat. Sprightly as a youth, he dashed out of the hall and across the courtyard to the taproom in front.
"A chair; lend me a chair, will you? Fru Westergaard's there."
He came back, breathless, with an American rocking-chair, which he proffered humbly.
The congregation had meanwhile arranged itself in a phalanx formation like wild geese on the wing. In the forefront of all sat the new disciple in her restless chair. On the next bench were Evangelist Karlsen and Egholm alone, and behind them again came the rest of the dearly beloved, in order of precedence according to dignity or ambition.
The entire flock seemed shaping its course towards the sun, in the person of Angel Karlsen, who was up on the platform praying and preaching, tearful and affecting as ever.
"_As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, O God._
"_My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God; when shall I come and appear before God?_"
He wrung his hands in a great agony, and hid his face.