"Hark 'ee, friend Tom," said Jessamy, apparently quite unmoved by the growing hostility of the rabble, "I love ye, Tom! And I love ye, first because you're a child o' God, though to be sure ye don't look it, Tom!" Here Tom unbuttoned and tossed aside his tight-fitting coat. "And secondly," pursued Jessamy, "I love ye because somewhere inside o' ye you've got an immortal soul--of a kind, Tom, that the Lord holdeth precious and beyond rubies--though only the Lord knoweth why, Tom." Here the big man tightened his belt and proceeded to roll up his sleeves. "Therefore, Tom," continued Jessamy, watching these preparations with kindly interest, "therefore, 't is your soul as I'm after and the souls of all these pals o' yours--these poor lost lambs as look so uncommonly like wolves, Tom. Howbeit--" Uttering a scornful oath, Tom snatched an ale mug from one near by and dashed its contents into Jessamy's face, whereupon rose a yell of fierce laughter and acclaim. "And now, Tom lad," sighed Jessamy, his blue eyes mild as ever, while the liquid dripped from the great jut of his chin, "now, dear friend, let's you an' me pray together!" Then, lifting his face to the cloudless sky, Jessamy began thus, while Tom and his fellows stared mute with amazement or perhaps awed by something in that shapely, patient, yet grimly alert figure: "O Lord who looketh into all hearts and in every heart can find something good among the evil--aye, Lord, even in this Tom's heart, since he is child o' Thine--grant that I, Thy humble instrument, may rouse the good within Thy Tom's heart one way or t' other, either by reason and gentleness or force and--" I uttered a gasping, inarticulate cry of warning but in that instant Jessamy moved his head an inch or so and the heavy pewter tankard that should have brained him flew harmlessly by and rolled clattering a good twenty paces behind him. "Ah, Peregrine," said Diana in sighing whisper, "O Peregrine--watch Jessamy--watch!" And as she spoke the big fellow rushed. On he came, head lowered, mighty fists whirling, to butt and smite, but Jessamy moved also, slightly, but enough, and as his terrible assailant blundered past, smote him lightly on the crown with open palm. "Lord, Tom lad," he admonished in his clear, ringing tones, "that's a fool's way to set about harming your brother. Give over, Tom, give over and let's pray instead." Uttering a furious oath, Tom swung about and smote fiercely with right and left. But ducking the blows, Jessamy slipped nimbly aside, shaking his head in mild reproof. "Come, come, Tom," said he; "can't ye see you're as harmless as a bleatin' lamb or cooin' dove? I've no wish to hurt ye, so let's ha' done and get on with our prayers--" "Fight!" roared Tom, beside himself with fury. "Stand up an' fight, you--" and here followed a torrent of foulest invective and abuse.