“Sir,” said Parson Rodney, bringing his dripping horse beside him, “I grieve that any man in my parish should put such an affront upon you. Only so gross a wretch would have done so. Thank Heaven the fellow is not of Porthawn, nor a Cornishman at all. If you do not think that my simple rebuke has been enough, I am a Justice, and I promise you to send him to gaol for a month at next session.”
“Sir, you mean well by me,” said Wesley; “but I would not that any human being were placed in jeopardy of his life on my account.”
“That is because you are overgentle, sir,” said Rodney. “Thank Heaven, my fault does not lie in that direction.”
“Repent, repent, repent, while there is yet time In a few more hours Time shall be no more!” came a loud voice from the high ground above the bank.
Everyone turned and saw there the figure of Richard Pritchard, standing barehead in the scorching sun, his hands upraised and his hair unkept; and a curious nondescript garment made apparently of several sacks hastily stitched together, with no sleeves. On his feet he wore what looked like sandals—he had cut down the upper portion of his shoes, so that only the sole remained, and these were fastened to his feet by crossed pieces of tape. He was the prophet of the Bible illustration. It was plain that he had studied some such print and that he had determined that nothing should be lacking in his garb to make complete the part which he meant to play.
Up again went the long, lean, bare arms, and again came the voice:
“O men of Porthawn, now is the accepted time, now is the Day of Salvation. Yet a few more hours and Time shall be no more. Repent, repent, repent, while ye have time.”