Greatly to the Professor’s discomposure, however, just as he spoke these words, the Veiled Lady arose.  There was a mysterious tremor that shook the magic veil.  The spectators, it may be, imagined that she was about to take flight into that invisible sphere, and to the society of those purely spiritual beings with whom they reckoned her so near akin.  Hollingsworth, a moment ago, had mounted the platform, and now stood gazing at the figure, with a sad intentness that brought the whole power of his great, stern, yet tender soul into his glance.

“Come,” said he, waving his hand towards her.  “You are safe!”

She threw off the veil, and stood before that multitude of people pale, tremulous, shrinking, as if only then had she discovered that a thousand eyes were gazing at her.  Poor maiden!  How strangely had she been betrayed!  Blazoned abroad as a wonder of the world, and performing what were adjudged as miracles,—­in the faith of many, a seeress and a prophetess; in the harsher judgment of others, a mountebank,—­she had kept, as I religiously believe, her virgin reserve and sanctity of soul throughout it all.  Within that encircling veil, though an evil hand had flung it over her, there was as deep a seclusion as if this forsaken girl had, all the while, been sitting under the shadow of Eliot’s pulpit, in the Blithedale woods, at the feet of him who now summoned her to the shelter of his arms.  And the true heart-throb of a woman’s affection was too powerful for the jugglery that had hitherto environed her.  She uttered a shriek, and fled to Hollingsworth, like one escaping from her deadliest enemy, and was safe forever.

XXIV.  THE MASQUERADERS

Two nights had passed since the foregoing occurrences, when, in a breezy September forenoon, I set forth from town, on foot, towards Blithedale.  It was the most delightful of all days for a walk, with a dash of invigorating ice-temper in the air, but a coolness that soon gave place to the brisk glow of exercise, while the vigor remained as elastic as before.  The atmosphere had a spirit and sparkle in it.  Each breath was like a sip of ethereal wine, tempered, as I said, with a crystal lump of ice.  I had started on this expedition in an exceedingly sombre mood, as well befitted one who found himself tending towards home, but was conscious that nobody would be quite overjoyed to greet him there.  My feet were hardly off the pavement, however, when this morbid sensation began to yield to the lively influences of air and motion.  Nor had I gone far, with fields yet green on either side, before my step became as swift and light as if Hollingsworth were waiting to exchange a friendly hand-grip, and Zenobia’s and Priscilla’s open arms would welcome the wanderer’s reappearance.  It has happened to me on other occasions, as well as this, to prove how a state of physical well-being can create a kind of joy, in spite of the profoundest anxiety of mind.