“Sir!” cried Zachary, crimson with anger, his face making the most strange contrast to Waghorn’s grim pallor. “Look what this pestilent fellow hath done now! ’Tis the Prayer-book, sir, from the church—he’s slashed and torn it to bits!”
The Vicar looked with indignation at the ruthlessly-torn pages, and hastily rising, paced the room, wrestling with a burning desire to kick the fanatic out of the house. When he had conquered himself, he returned once more to the writing-table.
“By what right do you destroy the parish property?” he said, gravely.
“I am a parishioner, and do intend to see the law of the land obeyed,” replied Waghorn.
“I have yet to learn that the law of the land orders the tearing up of books,” said the Vicar.
“It orders the disuse of the Book of Common Prayer, and that’s the same thing,” retorted Waghorn.
“Not at all,” said the Vicar. “If Parliament ordered you to cease from carving wood, it would not be lawful for me to come and burn your tools. Leave us, Zachary; I must discuss this matter alone with Waghorn.”
With keen anxiety he recalled his encounter in the dark with the spy, and wondered how much he really knew.
“I warned you, sir,” said the wood-carver, “that you might not be staying on at the Vicarage.”
“Hath Parliament, then, abolished me, as well as the Prayer-book?” inquired the Vicar, with a humorous gleam in his grey eyes.