The elder's hand hovered over her head, on her face a deadly pallor had settled, her eyes were cast down, she breathed painfully and trembled from head to foot. She was about to fall, when Ben set his eyes upon her. "Get out o' my way," he shouted, shouldering up the aisle. His words had oaths, his fists were like mauls. "Grace!" he cried, and she heard. She looked up and saw him coming; the red flamed over her face. The power of the preacher was gone. "Let me go," she cried, trying to wring herself loose. "You are going to hell. You are lost if you do not--" "God damn ye. Get out o' way. I'll kill ye if you lay a hand on her." With one thrust Ben cleared her tormentor from her arm. For one moment the wordless young man looked into her eyes; then she staggered toward him. He faced the preacher. "I'd smash hell out o' you for a leather cent," he said. In the tumult his words were lost, but the look on his face was enough. The exhorter fell away. Their retreat was unnoted in the tumult. At the door they looked back for an instant at the scene. At the mourners' bench were six victims in all stages of induced catalepsy, one man with head flung back, one with his hands pointing, fixed in furious appeal. Another with bowed head was being worked upon by a brother of hypnotic appeal. He struck with downward, positive gestures on either side of the victim's head. Over another the negress towered, screaming with panther-like ferocity:-- "Git under de blood! Git under de blood!" As she screamed she struck down at the mourner with her clenched fist. On her face was the grin of a wildcat. Out under the cool, lofty oaks, the outcry was more inexpressibly hellish, because overhead the wind rustled the sweet green leaves, crickets were chirping, and the scent of flowering fields of buckwheat was in the air. Grace grew calmer, but she clung with strange weakness to her lover. She felt he had saved her from something, she did not know what, but it was something terrifying to look back upon. Conrad was forgotten--set aside. Ben bundled him into the carryall and took his place with Grace. He no longer hesitated, argued, or apologized. He had claimed his own. On the long ride home, Grace lay within his right arm, and the young man's tongue was unchained. He talked, and his spirit grew tender and manly and husbandlike, as he told his plans and his hopes. Hell was very far away, and Heaven was very near. LUCRETIA BURNS I Lucretia Burns had never been handsome, even in her days of early girlhood, and now she was middle-aged, distorted with work and child-bearing, and looking faded and worn as one of the boulders that lay beside the pasture fence near where she sat milking a large white cow.