“Just a moment,” begged the padre.  “One thread I don’t follow—­the religion.  Who was Christian?  The merchant?”

“Well, rather!  Thought I told you,” said Heywood.  “One of yours—­big, mild chap—­Chok Chung.”

The elder man sat musing.

“Yes,” the deep bass rumbled in the empty chapel, “he’s one of us.  Extremely honest.  I’m—­I’m very sorry.  There may be trouble.”

“Must be, sir,” prompted the younger.  “The mob, meanwhile, just stood there, dumb,—­mutes and audience, you know.  All at once, the hindmost began squalling ‘Foreign Dog,’ ‘Goat Man.’  We stepped outside, and there, passing, if you like, was that gentle bookworm, Mr. Fang.”

“Fang?” echoed the padre, as in doubt.  “I’ve heard the name.”

“Heard?  Why, doctor,” cried Heywood, “that long, pale chap,—­lives over toward the Dragon Spring.  Confucian, very strict; keen reader; might be a mandarin, but prefers the country gentleman sort; bally mischief-maker, he’s done more people in the eye than all the Yamen hacks and all their false witnesses together!  Hence his nickname—­the Sword-Pen.”

Dr. Earle sharpened his heavy brows, and studied the floor.

“Fang, the Sword-Pen,” he growled; “yes, there will be trouble.  He hates us.  Given this chance—­Humph!  Saul of Tarsus.—­We’re not the Roman Church,” he added, with his first trace of irritation.  “Always occurring, this thing.”

Once more he meditated; then heaved his big shoulders to let slip the whole burden.

“One day at a time,” he laughed.  “Thank you for telling us.—­You see, Mr. Hackh, they’re not devils.  The only fault is, they’re just human beings.  You don’t speak the language?  I’ll send you my old teacher.”

They talked of things indifferent; and when the young men were stumbling along the streets, he called after them a resounding “Good-night!  Thanks!”—­and stood a resolute, gigantic silhouette, filling, as a right Doone filled their doorframe, the entrance to his deserted chapel.

At his gate, felt Rudolph, they had unloaded some weight of responsibility.  He had not only accepted it, but lightened them further, girt them, by a word and a look.  Somehow, for the first time since landing, Rudolph perceived that through this difficult, troubled, ignorant present, a man might burrow toward a future gleam.  The feeling was but momentary.  As for Heywood, he still marched on grimly, threading the stuffed corridors like a man with a purpose.

“No dinner!” he snapped.  “Catchee bymby, though.  We must see Wutzler first.  To lose sight of any man for twenty-four hours, nowadays,—­Well, it’s not hardly fair.  Is it?”

They turned down a black lane, carpeted with dry rubbish.  At long intervals, a lantern guttering above a door showed them a hand’s-breadth of the dirty path, a litter of broken withes and basket-weavers’ refuse, between the mouldy wall of the town and a row of huts, no less black and silent.  In this greasy rift the air lay thick, as though smeared into a groove.