The
elders, sitting in a row below the pulpit facing us, listened to the
fierce diatribe against the dark arts with looks of approbation that
boded ill for M. Picot; and at every fresh fusillade of texts to
bolster his argument, the line of deacons below the elders glanced back
at the preacher approvingly. Rebecca sat on that side of the
congregation assigned to the women with a dumb look of sympathy on the
sweet hooded face. The prisoners were not present. At the end of the
service the preacher paused; and there fell a great hush in which men
scarce breathed, for sentence was to be pronounced. But the preacher
only announced that before handing the case to the civil court of oyer
and terminer for judgment, the elders wished to hold it in meditation
for another day.
The singing of the dismissal psalm began and a smothered cry seemed to
break from Rebecca's pew. Then the preacher had raised his hands above
bowed heads. The service was over. The people crowded solemnly out,
and I was left alone in the gathering darkness--alone with the ghosts
of youth's illusions mocking from the gloom. Religion, then, did not
always mean right! There were tyrants of souls as well as tyrants of
sword. Prayers were uttered that were fitter for hearing in hell than
in Heaven.
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