The next moment a thrill ran through the assemblage other than the fervors of religion, or the natural curiosity elicited by the developments hitherto. A man, for whom the pastor was waiting in the stream, was coming down the bank,—a man with that singular pallor acquired by years of indoor life, and known as “jail bleach;” a tall, thin figure, clad in brown jeans that hung loosely upon him. He had bright, quick, gray eyes, black hair that lay straight and close about a narrow, thin head, and clear-cut, regular features; the profile showed with onyx-like distinctness against the clouds and the dark river, in the lurid light of the day. It was Jake Baintree, the man who had last seen the missing mountaineer, and who had been tried for his murder and acquitted. The congregation had forgotten to sing. It was in dead silence that he went down to the typical flood to wash his sins away. Hoof-beats smote suddenly the tense and stormy stillness. The horsemen were riding down the rocky defile to hear what might be said, reining in at the rear of the crowd; one standing erect in his stirrups, to look over the heads and down into the dark current, the other kneeling on his saddle. It was not the parson who met Jake Baintree. A figure like Saul’s, taller by a head than all his fellows, with a long supple step, an imperious erectness, and a manner that would not be denied, interposed on the bank of the river, laid a hand on the candidate’s breast, and held him back. “Wait, Jacob Baintree!” exclaimed Teck Jepson. “Wait till ye hear how the rocks hev cried out agin ye. They would not hold thar peace, though the jedge an’ the juries let thar hands fall, an’ jestice dwindled away. An’ what did the rocks say?” He stood alert, tingling in every fibre, his hand still on the man’s breast, who had put up both his own hands to pull it down. But there they rested upon it, as if palsied, while he fixed his startled, fascinated gaze upon the fiery eyes of the other. “The rocks say, ‘Sam’l Keale’s coat!’” Jepson held up a dark garment, shaking it in the air. A tremor ran through the crowd; a low, inarticulate exclamation burst from it. The candidate’s hands fell from the arm he had sought to clutch. He winced perceptibly, and Teck Jepson’s grasp closed on his collar. He should hear; they all should heed. “An’ then the rocks say, ‘Sam’l Keale’s hat!’” Jepson held it aloft. “I fund ’em in a hollow, ahint a rock, folks,—a rock ez wouldn’t hide ’em, for the freeze split it, an’ revealed the gyarments ter my eye. Now,”—he flung the man from him,—“go ter yer baptism in brimstun’ an’ wrath, whar the worm dieth not, an’ the fire is not squenched!” He turned, and was lost in the crowd, many shrinking away in horror from the garments he held in either hand, and from his furious look and manner. For there was some sympathy for the man whom he left trembling on the bank, and attentive ears, and minds open to conviction, were lent to Baintree’s words as he exclaimed,—