"It's as dark as hell," said Captain Twinely. "Send a man down to the
minister's house and let him fetch up a bundle of bogwood to serve us
for torches. I must have light."

One of the men departed on the errand. The sergeant, mounted on the
pulpit, rapped on the desk in front of him to secure silence, and said
in a high-pitched, drawling voice--

"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, a