“Well, you can appeal the case to the Supreme Court, Jim,” the old man returned. “It's my _breakfast_ time,” and he stamped stiffly away down the pike and up the road to his cabin, followed by the blessings of the Little Flock. The Little Flock had remained in stupefaction at the junction of the country road and the turnpike, helplessly watching the flight of their idol from the Herd of the Lost. When Dylks vanished in the dusk of the forest, and the last of those who had followed him came lagging breathless back, and dropped from their hands the broken stone which they had unconsciously brought with them, the Little Flock involuntarily raised their hymn, as if it had been a song of triumph; an inglorious triumph, but an omen of final victory, and of the descent of the New Jerusalem in Leatherwood. “Never mind!” one of the Herd panted. “We'll have him out of that gulf of dark despair, yit!” “The Lord will put forth His might,” one of the Flock defied him. “But if you fellows want to feel the arm of flesh, here and now, come on!” The Squire put himself between the forces. “I want you to keep the peace; I command the peace,” he said with magisterial dignity. “Oh, all right, Squire,” a Hound applauded him. “We know you're on our side.” “Brother Braile is on the side of righteousness,” the champion of the Flock answered. The Squire turned a frowning face upon him. “If the law could have held your god, he'd have been on his way to the county jail by this time. Now, you fellows, both sides, go home, and look after your corn and tobacco; and you women, you go and get breakfast for them, and wash up your children and leave the Kingdom of Heaven alone for a while.” The weight of condemnation was for the Little Flock, but there remained discomfort for the Herd of the Lost. “And you,” the Squire turned to them, “you let these folks worship any stock or stone they're a mind to; and you find out the true God if you can, and stick to Him, and don't bother the idolaters. I reckon He can take care of Himself. I command you all to disperse. Go home! Get out! Put!” The saints and the sinners felt alike the mystical force of the law in his words and began to move away, not without threats and defiances, more or less straggling, and not altogether ceasing even after they had lost sight of one another in their parting ways. Redfield stayed to walk home with the old man. “Of course, Squire Braile,” he said, “this ain't the last of Dylks, and it ain't the last of _us_. It's a sin and a shame to have the thing going on among us. You know that as well as I do. It's got to be stopped. If he'd got his just dues from you--” “You young fool,” the Squire retorted, kindly, “haven't you gone far enough yet in your Blackstone to know that justice is one thing and law is another? I gave Dylks his legal deserts.” “Blackstone says the law is the perfection of reason.”