auder. It
went rolling and crackling through the church defiantly, derisively,
appreciatively. Halfway up the aisle a softer pair of hands touched
the rattle with what sounded like a faint echo; then there was
sudden silence. The entire audience turned and looked disparagingly,
discouragingly, at the man who had figuratively risen as a champion
of the scandalous recitation. Resentment had taken hold of the good
Christians. That Crusader had enlisted their sympathies for a few
minutes showed the dangerous subtlety of this "horseracin' business."

The rest of the programme might just as well have been eliminated; the
concert, as a concert, would be discussed for all time to come as having
projected "The Death of Crusader."

The people flowed from the church full of an expressive contentiousness,
seeking by exuberant condemnation of the sacrilege to square themselves
somehow with their consciences for the brief backsliding.

Where the church path turned into the road a group of men had drawn
together, attracted by the magnet of discussion. They quite blocked the
pathway, oblivious to everything but their outraged feelings. Like a
great dark blotch in the night the group stood; and presently two
slight gray shadows slipping up the path, coming to the human barricade,
stopped, wavered, and circled out on the grass to pass. The shadows were
Allis Porter and her brother Alan.

One of the men, overfilled with his exceeding wrath, seeing the girl,
gave expression to a most unchristian opinion of her modesty. The sharp
ears of the boy heard the words of the man of harsh instinct, and his
face flushed hot with resentment. He half turned, bitter reproach rising
to his lips. How could men be so brutish? How could they be so base? To
speak ill of his sister Allis, who was just the purest, sweetest little
woman that ever lived--too brave and true to be anything else but good!

As he turned he saw something that checked his futile anger. A tall
shadow that had come up the path behind them stretched out an arm, and
he heard the vilifier's words gurgle and die away, as one of the strong
hands that had beat the tattoo of approbation clutched him by the
throat. The boy would have rushed to the assistance of this executive
friend if the girl had not clasped his arm in detention.

"It's Mortimer!" he cried, as a voice from the strong-armed figure cut
the night air with sharp decision.

Then the shadowy forms twisted up grotesquely, we