A man, red-faced and with the devil of the cup of trembling peering from
under his shaggy eyebrows, rose unsteadily from his seat on the bench
nearest the door.

"'Sh! he's fotched Tike Bryerson!" flew the whisper from lip to ear; but
the man with the trembling madness in his eyes was backing toward the
door. Suddenly he stooped and rose again with a backwoodsman's rifle in
his hands, and his voice sheared the breathless silence like the snarl
of a wild beast at bay.

"No, by jacks, ye won't witness ag'inst me, Silas Crafts; ye'll be
dead!"

The crack of the rifle went with the words, and at the flash of the
piece the man sprang backward through the doorway and was gone. Happily,
he had been too drunk or too tremulous to shoot straight. The preacher
was unhurt, and he was quick to quell the rising tumult and to turn the
incident to good account.

"There went the arrow of conviction quivering to the heart of a
murderer!" he cried, dominating the commotion with his marvelous voice.
"Come back here, Japheth Pettigrass; and you, William Layne: God
Almighty will deal with that poor sinner in His own way. For him, for
every impenitent soul here to-night, the hour has struck. 'Now is the
accepted time; now is the day of salvation.' While we are singing, _Just
as I am, without one plea_, let the doors of divine mercy stand opened
wide, and let every hard heart be softened. Come, ye disconsolate; come
forward to the mercy-seat as we sing."