Was God in heaven? would He allow it?
As though in answer, close at hand a bugle sounded.
The boy had a vision of a winged figure, sword in hand, swooping wrathfully down upon them.
Surely he knew it—that swoop, that sword, that splendid rage.
It was St. Michael, the Archangel, in the famous picture by Guido
Reni, a copy of which hung in the drawing-room at home.
"Remember the crew o the Curlew, men!" roared a mighty voice.
The arms about the boy loosened.
"The sogers!" shrilled Fat George, and bolted with a scream.
The rest followed in cataract rout. They pelted past the lad, bellowing, bleating: a tumult of arms, legs, aweful eyes in aweful faces. Only Beardie had the strength of mind to aim a smashing blow at the boy's head as he fled, and he missed.
"Make for the cottage, boys!" thundered the Parson, storming by. "Oh, Polly, my love and my lady!" and his sword flashed and sang and swept against the sky.