"They must ha' come into the town from som'er's nigh the old cross-road," said he. "No, 't wa'n't where they made the river road. Then they turned straight to one side--'t was thick woods then, you understand--an' went up a little ways towards Horn o' the Moon. But they concluded that wouldn't suit 'em, 't was so barren-like; an' they wheeled round, took what's now the old turnpike, an' clim' right up Tiverton Hill, through Tiverton Street that now is. An' there"--Nicholas Oldfield's eyes burned like blue flame, and again he told the story of the Flat-Iron Lot. "Indeed!" cried the parson. "What a truly remarkable circumstance! We might halt on that very spot, and offer prayer, before entering the church." "'Pears as if that would be about the rights on 't," said Nicholas quietly. "That is, if anybody wanted to plan it out jest as 't was." He could free his words from the pride of life, but not his voice; it quivered and betrayed him. "Your idea would be to have the services before going down for the Indian raid?" inquired the doctor. "They're all at loggerheads there." But Nicholas, hearing how neither faction would forego its glory, had the remedy ready in a cranny of his brain. "Well," said he, "you know there was a raid in '53, when both sides gi'n up an' run. A crazed creatur on a white horse galloped up an' dispersed 'em. He was all wropped up in a sheet, and carried a jack-o'-lantern on a pole over his head, so 't he seemed more 'n nine feet high. The settlers thought 'twas a spirit; an' as for the Injuns, Lord knows what 't was to them. 'T any rate, the raid was over." "Heaven be praised!" cried the doctor fervently. "Allah is great, and you, Mr. Oldfield, are his prophet. Stay here and coach the parson while I start up the town."