religion. Who was Christian? The merchant?"

"Well, rather! Thought I told you," said Heywood. "One of yours--big,
mild chap--Chok Chung."

The elder man sat musing.

"Yes," the deep bass rumbled in the empty chapel, "he's one of us.
Extremely honest. I'm--I'm very sorry. There may be trouble."

"Must be, sir," prompted the younger. "The mob, meanwhile, just stood
there, dumb,--mutes and audience, you know. All at once, the hindmost
began squalling 'Foreign Dog,' 'Goat Man.' We stepped outside, and
there, passing, if you like, was that gentle bookworm, Mr. Fang."

"Fang?" echoed the padre, as in doubt. "I've heard the name."

"Heard? Why, doctor," cried Heywood, "that long, pale chap,--lives over
toward the Dragon Spring. Confucian, very strict; keen reader; might be
a mandarin, but prefers the country gentleman sort; bally
mischief-maker, he's done more people in the eye than all the Yamên
hacks and all their false witnesses together! Hence his nickname--the
Sword-Pen."

Dr. Earle sharpened his heavy brows, and studied the floor.

"Fang, the Sword-Pen," he growled; "yes, there will be trouble. He hates
us. Given this chance--Humph! Saul of Tarsus.--We're not the Roman
Church," he added, with his first trace of irritation. "Always
occurring, this thing."