“Oh, if Dylks is in there he'll work one of his miracles and _make_ room,” another of the Hounds answered. Redfield stood trying the door. “Locked? Hammer on it! Break it in! Here! Give him a shoulder!” The mob surged forward, laughing and shouting, and crushed Redfield against the door. The panel cracked and groaned; Redfield called to the crowd to hold back, but suddenly the door opened, and the fanatical face of Enraghty showed itself above Redfield's back. “What do you want?” he demanded. “This is the Lord's house.” “Then it's as much ourn as what it is yourn,” some one shouted back. “We want to see the Lord,” another called. “Just one look, just one lick.” The old schoolmaster lost his self-control. “There are some of you out there that I've licked before now for your mischief.” “Yes, we know that,” came back. “You didn't lick us enough. We'd like to have you give us some more.” The hindmost of the Hounds surged against those in front, and the whole mob fell forward upon Redfield; he staggered over the threshold to save himself, and struck Enraghty backward in his helpless plunge. “Oh, look out there,” the nearest of the mob called back. “Your're hurtin' Mr. Enraghty!” “Well, we don't want to hurt old Saint Paul!” a mocker returned; but they pressed on wilfully, helplessly; they pushed those in front, who might have held back, and filled the entry-way and the rooms beyond. In a circle of his worshipers, kneeling at his feet, stood Dylks, while they hailed him as their God and entreated his mercy. At the scramble behind them, they sprang up and stood dazed, confronting their enemies. “We want Dylks! We want the Good Old Man! We want the Lion of Judah! Out of the way, Little Flock!” came in many voices; but when the worshipers yielded, Dylks had vanished. A moment of awe spread to their adversaries, but in another moment the riot began again. The unbelievers caught the spirit of the worse among them and stormed through the house, searching it everywhere, from the cellar to the garret. A yell rose from them when they found Dylks half way up the chimney of the kitchen. His captors pulled him forward into the light, and held him cowering under the cries of “Kill him!” “Tie him to a tree and whip him!” “Tar and feather him!” “Ride him on a rail!” “No, don't hurt him!” Redfield commanded. “Take him to a justice of the peace and try him.” “Yes,” the leader of the Hounds assented. “Take him to Squire Braile. He'll settle with him.” The Little Flock rallied to the rescue, and some of the herd joined them. As an independent neutral, Abel Reverdy, whom his wife stirred to action, caught up a stool and joined the defenders. “Why, you fool,” a leader of the Hounds derided him amiably, “what you want to do with that stool? If the Almighty can't help himself, you think _you're_ goin' to help him?” Abel was daunted by the reasoning, and even Sally stayed her war cries.