He paused, almost breathless, and there was a dull mutter of assent throughout the crowd. Above the angry sound the clear voice of Father Francis was heard, a voice of delicate timbre, in striking contrast with the raucous tones of the demagogue. It was the first time he had come amongst the cranks as a competitor for notice, and he had only done it after great misgiving concerning his own powers and the utility of trying them under such conditions. Yet, he asked himself, what right had the clergy of England to shrink from the ordeal? Why should the men under whose lips was the poison of asps, why should the blasphemer, be allowed to hold the field? If the people would not come to the church, ought not the church to go to the people? Was not the Master Preacher of all time an open-air preacher. Was not the greatest of all sermons preached from the hill-side to the common people, who heard Him gladly? The fields of corn, the trees, the flowers, the common objects of the country-side, had ever furnished simple but convincing themes for One who spake as never spake mortal man before or since. No, he _would not_ be a coward! So the young priest put his Bible under his arm and walked across Park Lane to the Cranks’ Corner. Was discretion always the better part of valour, or was it really a synonym for cowardice? He went with no idea of entering into argument or controversy with others. He knew that amid much mendacity there was blended not a little truth, though perhaps partial and perverted, in some of those inflammatory speeches. No one knew better the sins of his own order. He himself, in his younger days, like Augustine of old, had drunk deep of the knowledge of evil. Like Tannhäuser, he, too, had lingered in the Venusberg, and gone back to it again and yet again; but ever in his ears--sometimes near and sometimes from afar--had sounded the wonderful chant of the pilgrims; the rhythm of their steadfast march always reproached him; until, suddenly, shame and remorse had wrought a miracle, and, stumbling and mistrustful of himself, he joined the pilgrims’ ranks, and understood the music of that mighty march as he had never done before. Here, on this unique spot in London, men were always pouring out their own ideas, intoxicated with the exuberance of their own verbosity; but he himself had resolved to try another plan. What could he, or any man, offer better worth hearing than the words of the book under his arm, which contained the lively oracles of God Himself!