“I thank you, sir,” said the grey-headed preacher, stepping forward and thrusting a book into my father’s hands.  “We had best begin with a hymn, I think.  I have some experience of the softening power of music on these occasions.”

“We will sing,” announced the woman, “that beautiful hymn beginning, ‘Into a world of ruffians sent.’  Common metre, my friends, and Sister Tresize will give the pitch: 

     “Into a world of ruffians sent,
        I walk on hostile ground—­”

My father bared his head and opened the hymn-book; the rest of us, bareheaded too, ranged ourselves beside him; and so we stood facing the mob while the verses were sung in comparative quiet.  The words might be provocative, but few heard them.  The tune commanded an audience, as in Cornwall a tune usually will.  The true secret of the spell, however, lay in my father’s presence and bearing.  A British crowd does not easily attack one whom it knows as a neighbour and born superior; and it paid homage now to one who, having earned it all his life, carelessly took it for granted.

“Begad, sir,” said Mr. Fett in my ear, “and the books say that the feudal system is dead in England!  Why, here’s the very flower of it!  Damme, though, the old gentleman is splendid; superlative, sir; it’s ten to one against Coriolanus, and no takers.  Between ourselves, Coriolanus was a pretty fellow, but talked too much.  Phocion, sir?  Did I hear you mention Phocion?”

“You did not,” I answered.

“And quite right,” said he; “with your father running, I wouldn’t back Phocion for a place.  All the same,” Mr. Fett admitted, “this is what Mr. Gray of Peterhouse, Cambridge, would call a fearful joy, and I’d be thankful for a distant prospect of the way out of it.”

“Indeed, sir”—­my father, overhearing this, turned to him affably—­ “you touch the weak spot.  For the moment I see no way out of the situation, nor any chance but to prolong it; and even this,” he added, “will not be easy unless the lady on the lamp-post sensibly alters the tone of her discourse.”

Indeed, at the conclusion of the singing she had started again to address the crowd, albeit—­acting on my father’s hint—­in more moderate tones, and even, as I thought, somewhat tepidly.  Her theme was what she called convictions of sin, of which by her own account she had wrestled with a surprising quantity; but in the rehearsal of them, though fluent, she seemed to lose heart as her hearers relaxed their attention.

“Confound the woman!” grumbled my father.  “She had done better, after all, to continue frantic.  The crowd came to be amused, and is growing restive again.”