"You may be very right, sir——"
"My name is Phineas Tate."
"You may be very right, friend Phineas," said I, yawning; "but I can't alter all this. Go and preach to the King."
"The King shall be preached to in words that he must hear," he retorted with a frown, "but the time is not yet."
"The time now is to seek our beds," said I, smiling. "Do you lodge here?"
"For this night I lie here. To-morrow I preach to this city."
"Then I fear you are likely to lie in a less comfortable place to-morrow." And bidding him good-night, I turned to go. But he sprang after me, crying, "Remember, the time is short"; and I doubt whether I should have got rid of him had not Darrell at that moment entered the room. To my surprise, the two seemed to know one another, for Darrell broke into a scornful laugh, exclaiming:
"Again, Master Tate! What, haven't you left this accursed city to its fate yet?"
"It awaits its fate," answered the Ranter sternly, "even as those of your superstition wait theirs."
"My superstition must look out for itself," said Darrell, with a shrug; and, seeing that I was puzzled, he added, "Mr Tate is not pleased with me because I am of the old religion."