No one paid much heed to the preacher. It was a toss up whether he lived or died; but his hardy constitution, and, perhaps, his innate obstinacy, pulled him through. On the fourth day after the surgeon's visit he sat upright, on the fifth he struggled to his feet. The fifth day happened to be a Sunday, which, by a time-honoured custom, was a day set apart and sacred to free fights in the middle yard. Barnabas steadied himself, with one hand against the wall, and looked around him. He did not remember ever before to have felt physically weak. The sensation struck him as very curious.
"You'll not be trying that game again," remarked his enemy, the wardsman.
Barnabas Thorpe was a gaunt and ghastly sight, standing on his straw with the blood-stained bandage across his forehead. His face was whitened by confinement, and lined and hollowed by pain; but the sneer brought the light of battle into his blue eyes.
"Will I not?" he said grimly. "Wait an' see, man! This time we play to win."
"We? Who's fool enough to be on your side?" asked the man.
"I am on His," said Barnabas. "He leads!" He made his way along the ward while he spoke, stumbling more than once, panting from sheer weakness; and the wardsman followed, grinning.
All the men were out in the yard. Two of them were fighting, the rest were applauding. The preacher walked through the ring, and put his hands on the combatants' shoulders.
"Ye'll do that no more," he said. "It is my Master's day, an' He is here among us; an' to Him shall be the power an' th' glory."
He was so exhausted by the walk that he involuntarily leaned heavily on the man whose arm he had touched, and who stood and gaped, with awe-struck face.
In his full strength and vigour the preacher had failed—in his weakness he conquered.