The storm was rising, darkening. It crouched on the hills. It seemed to gather its garments and gird its loins, to breathe heavily with crowded hate, to strike with daggers of lightning right and left.
Adam came out again and sat on the bench. The service being over, it was no longer a pew.
Carriages, one after another, drove out of the foliage below, and along the five roads that ran out of Preston Plains between zigzag fences and low stone walls. They were hurrying, but from that distance they seemed to crawl.
The Wick carriage came up the hill and through the gate—creaking wheels, a shambling white horse, Sarah jerking the reins with monotonous persistence. She stepped down and dusted off her cotton gloves. Adam walked out to take the horse.
“Wherefore do ye harden your hearts as the Egyptians and Pharaoh hardened their hearts?”
Adam seemed puzzled, blinked his eyes, seemed to study carefully the contents of his own mind.
“I do' know,” he said at last.
“First Samuel, seven, six,” said Sarah.
Adam led the horse away despondently. Halfway to the bam he stopped and called out:
“Did he preach at me?”