I was trying to think about that picture over the altar.  Of course, they would naturally have replaced it!  I wondered who had found old de Wiggs up there; I wondered if he knew about it, and if he had any idea who had played that prank.  I looked to his pew; yes, there he sat, rosy and beaming, bland as ever!  I looked for old Peter Dexter, president of the Dexter Trust Company—­yes, he was in his pew, wizened and hunched up, prematurely bald.  And Stuyvesant Gunning, of the Fidelity National—­they were all here, the masters of the city’s finance and the pillars of “law and order.”  Some wag had remarked if you wanted to call directors’ meeting after the service, you could settle all the business of Western City in St. Bartholomew’s!

The organ pealed and the white-robed choir marched in, bearing the golden crosses, and followed by the Reverend Dr. Lettuce-Spray, smooth-shaven, plump and beautiful, his eyes bent reverently on the floor.  They were singing with fervor that most orthodox of hymns: 

The church’s one foundation Is Jesus Christ, her Lord.

It is a beautiful old service, as you may know, and I had been taught to love it and thrill to it as a little child, and we never forget those things.  Peace and propriety are its keynotes; order and dignity, combined with sensuous charm.  Everyone knows his part, and it moves along like a beautiful machine.  I knelt and prayed, and then sat and listened, and then stood and sang—­over and over for perhaps three-quarters of an hour.  We came to the hymn which precedes the sermon, and turning to the number, we obediently proclaimed: 

The Son of God goes forth to war A kingly crown to gain:  His blood-red banner streams afar:  Who follows in His train?

During the singing of the last verse, the Reverend Lettuce-Spray had moved silently into the pulpit.  After the choir had sung “Amen,” he raised his hands in invocation—­and at that awesome moment I saw Carpenter come striding up the aisle!

XXXVIII

He knew just where he was going, and walked so fast that before anyone had time to realize what was happening, he was on the altar steps, and facing the congregation.  You could hear the gasp of amazement; he was so absolutely identical with the painted figure over his head, that if he had remained still, you could not have told which was painting and which was flesh and blood.  The rector in the pulpit stood with his mouth open, staring as if seeing a ghost.

The prophet stretched out both his hands, and pointed two accusing fingers at the congregation.  His voice rang out, stern and commanding:  “Let this mockery cease!” Again he cried:  “What do ye with my Name?” And pointing over his head:  “Ye crucify me in stained glass!”

There came murmurs from the congregation, the first mutterings of a storm.  “Oh!  Outrageous!  Blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy?” cried Carpenter.  “Is it not written that God dwelleth not in temples made with hands?  Ye have built a temple to Mammon, and defile the name of my Father therein!”