in the act of laying her eggs.  There they were, still adhering to her—­a cluster of little opaque white spheres, like soapy bubbles.  He and John-Willy had used the occasion to try and add to their store of knowledge, and the memory of that unedifying discussion made Ishmael burn now.  That time, too, when he stole his mother’s Bible from her room that he might puzzle over portions of it which he had better have left unread.  True, it had been John-Willy—­whose household did not include a Bible and who could not read—­who had started him on the course and urged him on, for as boys go, especially country-bred boys, Ishmael was singularly clean of thought by nature, and also far more ignorant than he knew, but none the less conscience accused him and him only.  He knew the sin of it, because he was aware of what the Parson thought of such goings-on, and John-Willy had no such guide to right and wrong.  All these crimes thronged on him now, and still the awful voice went on.  The chapel grew hotter and hotter, and the flames shuddered at the wicks till to Ishmael’s starting eyes the shadowy walls seemed a-quiver, and the people’s faces swelled and diminished again.  The groans that began to sound from all around him bewildered him so that sight and hearing became one confused sense and the place seemed dark with the groaning.  Then cries began to pierce the medley of sound and vision.  “Lord, save us, we perish!” shrieked a woman just behind Ishmael, while Annie rocked herself back and forth, the tears streaming down her face as she gave vent to little howls like an animal in distress.

* * * * *

The preacher was clutching the rim of the pulpit with both hands, his face had turned to a curious greenish colour, his eyes were rolled upwards till only the whites could be seen:  he was no longer articulate; convulsive shudders tore at him, froth dabbled his chin.  Suddenly he fell down inside the pulpit and was lost to view, all except those fearful hands, that clutched and beat at the rim.  Then that too ceased, and they hung over motionless, like the hands of someone drowned....

The whole chapel was clamorous now with cries and groanings, but a comparative stillness fell as the preacher’s hands gripped the edge of the pulpit again and he dragged himself erect.  The sweat ran down his white face and splashed like tears on to the Bible before him.

“Who is going to stand forth and be saved?” he yelled:  “Who amongst you is still a prisoner to Satan?  Let him come forth and confess the Lard.  I see ’ee over there”—­pointing a shaking forefinger—­“you’m hesitating.  You can’t make up your mind to give up that sin you love.  Give it up, or this night thy soul shall be required of thee, and all the devils in hell shall play at ball with it in the midst of the flames.”