"Do not go!" he whispered passionately. "Listen! The door is open--we wait for you! we want you, Myfanwy!"
The girl turned to him. A faint tremor showed in her full, lithe figure; her lip trembled. Another moment and she would have given way, but that moment brought another factor to the equation of assent.
"Yes! We want you, Myfanwy! We wait for you!"
It was a girl's voice, and Myfanwy flashed round on it superbly self-possessed. "Thank you much, Alicia Edwards," she said in clear tones, "but there is no need for you to wait at all. I am going!"
And go she did, with her head held high, a sphinxlike calm of malice in her face, the frou-frou of her silken skirts heard above the sudden silence which fell upon the chapel.
It had needed but this example to make other hesitants follow. The congregation, taken aback, looked for guidance and got it from Gwen.
"I will not let thee go!" she chanted in still clearer, higher tones as she threw out her hands to those retreating souls. "Yea, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me. Where thou goest I will go. Thy God shall be my God! Follow! Follow!"
The cry was caught up readily, as all her cries were, when as now, her nervous equilibrium was disturbed. So on the heels of the retreating few, the many swept out into the chill, frost-bound moonlit night.
The utter peace of it, its cold indifference, disturbed by no questionings, struck like a knife to Morris Pugh's heart as he followed also, uncertain whether to accompany his flock on their midnight visitations, or go home to pray in secret for the salvation of sinners.
He chose the latter, and as he closed the door of his room the rousing chorus of a revival hymn echoed out under the stars of heaven, making him think sadly, how far away these were, for all their brightness.