"Yes," answered a muffled voice from the cellar.
"Go up to the curate and tell him I wish to speak to him. I shall be in my room. But say that he is to come at once. I am waiting."
The Provst was walking up and down the room with his hands behind him, when Emanuel knocked at his study door, and, without waiting for an answer, entered briskly.
"You want to speak to me, sir!"
The Provst did not answer, nor stop his walk, but waved him to a seat.
Emanuel sat down near the door. He held his head erect, crossed his legs, and put his right hand into the breast of his tightly buttoned up coat. His antagonistic bearing ill concealed his internal agitation. Feverish red patches came and went on his pale cheeks with great rapidity; his eyes were dull and heavy, as after a sleepless night.
As the Provst kept up the silence which was only broken by his creaking boots, Emanuel at last exclaimed, in his nervous impatience, changing his position, and running his hand through his hair:
"I suppose you want to speak to me about my address at the Meeting House yesterday. I regret, of course, that I did not have an opportunity of
