“He’s saved!” a voice shouted.
Others took up the cry. “Saved!” “The Squire’s saved!” “Saved to-night—saved to glory!”
The Squire paused, still leaning on the Bryanite’s arm. While the procession swayed around him, he gazed across the gate as a man who had lost his bearings. No glint of torchlight reached his cavernous eyes; but the sight of Mr. Raymond’s surpliced figure standing behind Taff’s shoulder in the full glare seemed to rouse him. He lifted a fist and shook it slowly.
“Com’st along, sir!” urged the Bryanite. But the Squire stood irresolute, muttering to himself.
“Com’st along, sir!”
“Lev’ me be, I tell ’ee!” He laid both hands on the gate and spoke across it to Mr. Raymond, his head nodding while his voice rose.
“D’ee hear what they say? I’m saved. I’m the Squire of this parish, and I’m goin’ to Heaven. I make no account of you and your church. Old Satan’s the fellow I’m after, and I’m going to have him out o’ this parish to-night or my name’s not Squire Moyle.”
“That’s of it, Squire!” “Hunt ’en!” “Out with ’en!”
He turned on the crowd.
“Hunt ’en? Iss fay I will! Come along, boys—back to Tredinnis! No, no”—this to the Bryanite—“we’ll go back. I’ll show ’ee sport— we’ll hunt th’ old Divvle by scent and view to-night. I’m Squire Moyle, ain’t I? And I’ve a pack o’ hounds, ha’n’t I? Back, boys— back, I tell ’ee!”