"The son's no worse than the father I'll warrant," shouted a third.
"Nor so bad either," broke in several.
"Say old greybeard," said a voice from the crowd, "which of you holy men is contracted to Isabel to-night?" and the insinuation was followed by shouts of laughter.
So the crowd passed on, yelling, cursing, mocking, deriding, pushing; the spirit of violence constantly increasing. The two prophets answered nothing, but bore all meekly; the only sign of emotion being the tears that silently flowed down the furrowed cheeks of Alma at the taunts thrown at him respecting his son; indeed he seemed weighed down with grief, and would have been trampled under foot but for the support of his strong companion, who bore him up, and kept back those who would have used violence had they dared.
The crowd passed and their shouts rose faintly above the busy hum of life in the city, and then at last died away altogether.
Corianton had remained in the alley way from which he had seen and heard what is described above; there he stood trembling from head to foot in an agony of shame and terror. At last he walked away, and rather from instinct than design he retraced his footsteps in the direction of Seantum's.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
FACE TO FACE.
As he walked along Corianton increased his speed; passion rocked his frame, and a deep design for revenge filled his heart. He passed down the path with rapid strides and entered the hall of Seantum's dwelling. Here he met a maid who had attended on Joan—Isabel,—and in whose company he had left her the night before.
"Where is your mistress, maid?" he demanded in no gentle tones.