Hawthorn—there was no great distance now to Hawthorn. There had never been much passing on this road, little human life going up and down. This day there seemed none; moreover, a cot or two by the wayside showed no folk about the doors, appeared shut and left to care for themselves. At dawn a man had been sent forward on a fresh horse—the loneliness of the road now connected itself with that. “Everybody’s gone to Hawthorn,” said the round-faced man. Hawthorn Church, stone amid stone-like yew trees, Hawthorn roofs showed over the rim of the fields. Out of a coppice rose a lark and soaring high sang up there in the blue. The Hawthorn Forest road joined the highroad; guard and prisoners coming upon this turned now to Hawthorn village. Carthew House—they passed Carthew House—they passed the outlying cottages, among them that of Alison Inch—they came into Hawthorn and to Hawthorn Church and Master Clement’s house. Here were the people.... A bench had been placed by the churchyard gate, and upon this stood Master Clement, raised as by a pulpit over Hawthorn. Near him stood Squire Carthew and his brother, and the latter stood grim and grey as granite. It was his intention to rise in church the coming Sunday and before all Hawthorn acknowledge that six-years-past sin. He owed that to God. The confession might or might not put in jeopardy his future in England, but, however that might be, he would make it—make it publicly! So he might have peace and could go on with the great work, assured that God had forgiven.... For to-day he had made himself come hither, taking it as part of his duty. Master Clement had urged that it was his duty. With a stern face he gazed upon the two, but they, after one glance, looked at him no more. All around, packed in the churchyard and the street, were the people of Hawthorn and its neighbourhood. How many familiar faces they saw—but how few out of which superstition had not razed kindliness! Heretofore on this journey, where they had been set in the eye of a gathered crowd, the two had met with physical blows no less than with hard words. But the Hawthorn throng was held in hand. No stone or clod or refuse was thrown. The hard words arose, broke over them heavily, a sordid and bitter wave. But this, too, the minister checked. He raised his arms and flung them wide, he shook his lean and nervous hands. Thrust to the front of the throng stood the tinker with whom Joan had once walked on the road from the town. “Hist, hist!” said the tinker. “Now will they hear their last sermon!” “‘_And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them, and they were judged according to their works.... And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire!_’ “‘_And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night forever and ever._’”