According to the principles of the church in Lantern Yard prosecution was forbidden to Christians.  But the members were bound to take other measures for finding out the truth, and they resolved on praying and drawing lots; there was nothing unusual about such proceedings a hundred years ago.  Silas knelt with his brethren, relying on his own innocence being certified by immediate Divine interference. The lots declared that Silas Marner was guilty.  He was solemnly suspended from church-membership, and called upon to render up the stolen money; only on confession and repentance could he be received once more within the fold of the church.  Marner listened in silence.  At last, when everyone rose to depart, he went towards William Dane and said, in a voice shaken by agitation, “The last time I remember using my knife was when I took it out to cut a strap for you.  I don’t remember putting it in my pocket again. You stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door.  But you may prosper for all that; there is no just God, but a God of lies, that bears witness against the innocent!”

There was a general shudder at this blasphemy.  Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul—­that shaken trust in God and man which is little short of madness to a loving nature.  In the bitterness of his wounded spirit, he said to himself, “She will cast me off, too!” and for a whole day he sat alone, stunned by despair.

The second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief by getting into his loom and working away as usual, and, before many hours were past, the minister and one of the deacons came to him with a message from Sarah, the young woman to whom he had been engaged, that she held her engagement at an end.  In little more than a month from that time Sarah was married to William Dane, and not long afterwards it was known to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had departed from the town.

II.—­The Second Blow

When Silas Marner first came to Raveloe he seemed to weave like a spider, from pure impulse, without reflection.  Then there were the calls of hunger, and Silas, in his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, and supper, to fetch his own water from the well, and put his own kettle on the fire; and all these immediate promptings helped to reduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect.  He hated the thought of the past; there was nothing that called out his love and fellowship towards the strangers he had come amongst; and the future was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him.