“Beloved! Brands snatched from the burning! Sanctified vessels! Let us, in this hour of trial and tribulation, when the ungodly triumph and prosper in their way, let us sing the Ould Hunderd to the comfort of our souls.” At the sound of his voice the troopers who remained outside crowded into the building, leaving two or three of their number to take care of the horses. Well satisfied with his congregation, the sergeant sang to the tune sanctified by two centuries of Puritan worship:-- “There was a Presbyterian cat Who loved her neighbour’s cream to sup; She sanctified her theft with prayer Before she dared to lap it up.” A burst of applause greeted the performance of this ribald parody. There were calls for more such psalmody. “Give us another verse, Sergeant.” “Tune up again, Dick.” “Goon, goon.” Lord Dunseveric, who had remained outside, dismounted and stalked through the door. He had caught the tune, though not the words of the sergeant’s song. He guessed at some ribald irreverence within. His face was white with anger. “Silence,” he cried. The sergeant, half drunk, looked at him with an insolent grin. “Your lordship will like the second verse better-- “There was a Presbyterian wife--” Lord Dunseveric forced his way through the soldiers who stood between him and the singer, and approached the pulpit with clenched fists and lips pressed close together. “Who found her husband growing old; She sanctified-----” sang the sergeant, leering at Lord Dunseveric, but before he got any further a woman’s shriek rang through the building. The sergeant stopped abruptly. The men crowded through the door, eager for some new excitement. Lord Dunseveric and Captain Twinely followed as quickly as they could. There was another shriek, a sound of blows and cursing. Then men’s voices rose above the tumult. “Down with the damned croppy.” “Throttle him.” “Knife him.” “Hold him now you’ve got him.” “Take a belt for his arms.” “Ah, here’s Tarn with the torches.” “Strike a light, one of you.” “There’s two of them, two wenches, by God, and young ones.” “Fetch them into the meeting-house and make them dance.” “Ay, by God, we’ll tie their petticoats round their necks and then make them dance.” There was a rush of men to the door of the meeting-house. Lord Dunseveric and Captain Twinely were borne back before they could see what was going on. Some one struck a light and illuminated a branch of bogwood which he held above his head as a torch. “Drag in the prisoner,” yelled a voice. “We’ll give him a place in the front and let him see his wenches dance.” Lord Dunseveric, unable to make his voice heard above the tumult, saw Neal Ward, his arms bound to his sides by a belt strapped round him, dragged into the meeting-house. His face was cut and bleeding slightly. His coat was rent from collar to skirt. “Make way, make way, for the ladies.”