None gave heed to his cry, for the sound of the bargaining was most high.  “Dissenters,” he bellowed, “what right have Church heathens to mix with us?  The Fiery Oven is their home.”

The people were dismayed.  Their number being small, the Church folk were pressed one upon the other; and after they were thrown in a mass against the gate of the Chariot House the Dissenters spread themselves easily as far as the door of the Crooked Stairway.

“Now, boys capel,” Towy-Watkins said, “we will have a sermon.  Fine will Welsh be in the nostrils of the Big Preacher.  Pray will I at once.”

The prayer ended, and one struck his tuning-fork; and while the congregation moaned and lamented, a tall man, who wore the habit of a preacher and whose yellow beard—­the fringe of which was singed—­hung over his breast like a sheaf of wheat, passed through the way of the door of the Stairway, and as he walked towards the Judgment Hall, some said:  “Fair day, Respected,” and some said:  “Similar he is to Towy-Watkins.”

“Shut your throats, colts,” Towy rebuked the people.  “Say after me:  ’Go round my backhead, Satan.’”

“Go round my backhead, Satan,” the people obeyed.

“Catch him and skin him,” Towy screamed.  “Teach him we will to snook about here.”

Fear arming his courage, Satan shouted:  “He who hurts me him shall I pitch head-long to the flames.”  The people’s hands went to their sides, and Satan departed in peace.

“In my heart is my head,” Towy said.  “Near the Oven we are.  Blow your noses of the stench.  Young youths, herd blockheads Church over here.”

Before the stalwarts started on their errand, the Overseer of the Waiting Chamber came to the door of the lane that takes you into the Judgment Hall, wherefore the Dissenters wept, howled, and whooped.

“Ready am I, God bach,” Towy exclaimed, stretching his hairy arms.  “Take me.”

“Patiently I waited for the last Trump and humbly do I now wait for the Crown from your fingers,” said Ben Lloyd.  “My deeds are recorded in the archives of the House of Commons and the Cymrodorion Society.”

“Clap up,” Towy admonished Ben.  “My religious actions can’t be counted.”

Lowering his eyes the Overseer murmured:  “I am not the Lord.”

“For why did you not say that?” cried Towy.  He stepped to the Overseer.  “Hap you are Apostle Shames.  A splendid photo of Shames is in the Beybile with pictures.  Fond am I of preaching from him.  Lovely pieces there are.  ‘Abram believed God.’  Who was Abram?  Father of Isaac bach.  Who made Abram?  The Big Man.  And the Big Man made the capel and the respected that is the jewel of the capel.  Is not the pulpit the throne?  Glad am I to see you, indeed, Shames.”

The Overseer opened his lips.

“Enter with you will I,” said Towy.  “Look through my glassy soul you can.”

“Silence—­” the Overseer began.