“There's none rides straightlier,” said the farmer. “And there's no better or steadier flyer than _King George_, first foal to my mare _Majesty_. When I heard that parson had need of a flyer that was a flyer, after poor _Gossip_ broke her neck at the Lyn and her master's left arm, I held back, not being wishful to put myself for'ard, though I knew what I knew, and knew that parson knew all I knew and maybe more; but he got wind o' the foal, and then----” “One at a time, farmer--one at a time is fair play between friends,” said the miller, nodding in the direction of Jake, who had suffered the interruption very meekly. “Your pardon, friend,” said the farmer. “Only 'twas yourself brought in the parson's pace. For myself, I think all the better of the cloth that rides straight to hounds.” “'Miserable sinners,'” said the carrier, picking up the thread which he had perforce dropped. “I tell ye, neighbours, that there's no need for any parson, be he a plain Vicar or of high rank such as a Dean--nay, a consecrated Bishop--no, I'm not going too far, miller--I say in cool blood and in no ways excited, a consecrated Lord Bishop--I say that not one of them need travel in discourse all his pulpit life, beyond that text 'Miserable sinners.' That was his text--the one I heard at Bristol. 'Miserable sinners.' For the first time in my life I knew what the words meant. I felt them--I felt them--words of fire--I tell ye that I felt them burn into me. That was at first--when he began to preach; a red-hot iron brand stinging me all over, and before he had done I felt as if all my poor body had been seared over and over again with red-hot letters that go to the spelling of '_miserable sinners_' You mind Joe Warden's trial when we were lads, and how he was branded in the forehead and right hand before he was sent to the pillory. He uttered neither cry nor moan when the hot iron burst his skin----” “I smell the smell o' 't in my nose this moment,” said the water-finder gently. The farmer nodded. “But the look that was on his face when he stood up there a marked man forever!” cried the original speaker. “It told everyone that had eyes what the man felt, and that was how I felt, multiplied an hundred fold, when my preacher had done with me. I felt from the first that he had singled out me--only me out of all that assembly, and when he had done with me, I say that I could feel myself feeling as Joe Warden felt, the rebel who suffered for slandering the King's Majesty.” “'Tis no marvel that the man has had most of the church doors banged in's face, if so be that he makes genteel churchgoers with ordinary failings to feel so unwholesome,” remarked the smith. “And so you comed away,” said the farmer. “Well, I wouldn't look back on it as if I was satisfied. If I want that sort o' preaching I'll e'en throw myself prone on my nine-acre field when the seed's in, and command my man Job to pass the harrow o'er the pelt o' my poor carcase.”