The next Sunday morning was bright and beautiful. The air was cold, but the sun shone from a clear sky to tempt from their homes the worshipers who, however willing to brave, on week-days, terrific storms sent to keep them from shopping excursions and parties, have not nerve enough upon Sundays to face a cloud no larger than a man’s hand.
Those persons who, upon devotional errands intent, walked along the footway near St. Cadmus’s church at the hour of morning prayer, perceived that something of an unusual and exciting nature was in progress in and about that purely Gothic edifice. The many whose curiosity succeeded in overcoming their desire to be punctual in their attendance at the sanctuary, paused to observe the proceedings.
A crisis had been reached in the quarrel between Father Tunicle and Father Krum. As the latter, in response to still another request that he would extend but three fingers in his pronunciation of the absolution, had positively, and indeed with vehemence, refused to extend less than four, and had gone so far as to indicate that, under serious provocation, he might even thrust out eight fingers and two thumbs, Father Tunicle’s party had resolved that the time had come for them to act.
“It is a terrible thing to do,” said Father Tunicle; “but the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church; and we must stand up boldly for truth and right, though we die for it.”
And so, upon that lovely Sunday morning, when dumb Nature herself seemed to be trying to express, with the glory of her sunshine, and with the pure beauty of her azure sky, her sense of the goodness of her Creator, Father Tunicle and six of his vestrymen, reinforced by a few earnest sympathizers, who were subsequently admitted through a side door by a faithful sexton, took possession of the church.
When Father Krum arrived, the faithful sexton, keeping watch and ward at the aforesaid door, refused to let him in; and when the indignant clergyman demanded a reason for his exclusion, the functionary informed him that his reckless conduct in using four fingers and a thumb, instead of the inferior number warranted by a strict regard for the usages of the primitive Church, had persuaded Father Tunicle and his partisans that, as a shepherd of the sheep, he was a lamentable and dismal, not to say dangerous, failure.
Then Father Krum, in a frame of mind that contained no suggestion of Christian resignation, walked rapidly around to the front of the church, where he found a group of persons, members of the congregation, who were standing before a close-barred door, behind which, in the vestibule, stood Father Tunicle and his adherents. While Father Krum, in the mildest tones that he could command, and with a proper desire not to produce any excitement, explained the situation to the crowd, the six vestrymen who inclined to favor his views, in opposition to those of Father Tunicle, came up, one after the other.
They were taken completely by surprise, and felt they were at a disadvantage. But after some preliminary discussion, they called Mr. Krum aside, and began to consider with him what should be done. Mr. Krum counselled a retreat. His voice was for peace. He urged that a resort to violence at any time, but especially at such a time, would be shocking. But the vestrymen did not agree with him. Mr. Yetts declared that they had a right to enter the church, and that for officers of the church with authority co-equal with theirs to deny that right, was simply monstrous, and not to be endured. Mr. Palfrey, Mr. Green, and the other vestrymen, expressed their full agreement with this proposition.
“But let us try peaceful means, at any rate,” said Mr. Krum. “I will knock at the door.”
He advanced and knocked. “Who is it?” said a voice from within.