“Gott in Himmel!” Julius cried. He had blocked for a few minutes the repeated knocking at his door. But he could ignore it no longer. Rueing the interruption to his writing, he put down his quill and walked stiffly to the worn front door, ducked slightly in the doorway and peered down at a compact young man with thick dark wavy hair and a beard around the edge of his round face. He was covered with the grime of travel. He said not a word of greeting.

The man in question almost broke his neck looking up at this solid German. A strong nose, piercing blue eyes, slightly balding blond hair and a full beard with tinges of grey greeted him. Wellhausen's clothes were old and comfortable – writer's garments, thought the man.

He introduced himself: “William Robertson Smith – our letters have crossed the English channel more times than I care to remember. Apologies for the surprise visit, but I had to talk with you. I'm at something of a loose end, heretic and jobless.”

“Willkommen,” Julius said with some hesitation, still utterly surprised by this nocturnal visitor from across the channel. He wondered at how they understood each other so well, Will with his Scots English and he himself with his German. Some new Pentecost, perhaps? It didn't matter; he suspended his disbelief and invited Will inside.