Cæsar threw off his waistcoat and finished with a passionate exhortation, calling upon his hearers to deliver themselves of secret sins. If oratory is to be judged of by its effects, Cæsar's sermon was a great oration. It began amid the silence of his own followers, and the _tschts_ and _pshaws_ of a little group of his enemies, who lounged on the outside of the crowd to cast ridicule on the “swaddler” and the “publican preacher.” But it ended amid loud exclamations of praise and supplications from all his hearers, sighing and groaning, and the bodily clutching of one another by the arm in paroxysms of fear and rapture. When Cæsar's voice died down like a wave of the sea, somebody leapt up from the grass to pray. And before the first prayer had ended, a second was begun. Meantime the penitents had begun to move inward through the throng, and they fell weeping and moaning on their knees about the cart. Kate was among them, and, when she took her place, Pete still held by her side A strong shuddering passed over her shoulders, and her wet eyes were on the grass. Pete took her hand, and feeling how it trembled, his own eyes also filled. Above their heads Cæsar was towering with fiery eyes and face aflame. In a momentary pause between two prayers, he tossed his voice up in a hymn. The people joined him at the second bar, and then the wailing of the penitents was drowned in a general shout of the revival tune-- “If some poor wandering child of Thine Have spurned to-day the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin, Let him no more lie down in sin.” Kate sobbed aloud--poor vessel of human passions tossed about, tormented by the fire that was consuming her. As the penitents grew calmer, they rose one by one to give their experience of Satan and salvation. At length Cæsar seized his opportunity and said, “And now Brother Quilliam will give us his experience.” Pete rose from Kate's side with tearful eyes amid a babel of jubilation, most of it facetious. “Be of good cheer, Peter, be not afraid.” “I've not much to tell,” said Pete--“only a story of backsliding. Before I earned enough to carry me up country, I worked a month at Cape Town with the boats. My master was a pious old Dutchman getting the name of Jan. One Saturday night a big ship lost her anchor outside, and on Sunday morning forty pounds was offered for finding it. All the boatmen went out except Jan. 'Six days shalt thou labour,' says he, 'but the seventh is the Sabbath.'” Pete's address was here punctuated by loud cries of thanksgiving.