"Grace!" he cried, and she heard. She looked up and saw him coming; the red flamed over her face.
The power of the preacher was gone.
"Let me go," she cried, trying to wring herself loose.
"You are going to hell. You are lost if you do not—"
"God damn ye. Get out o' way. I'll kill ye if you lay a hand on her."
With one thrust Ben cleared her tormentor from her arm. For one moment the wordless young man looked into her eyes; then she staggered toward him. He faced the preacher.
"I'd smash hell out o' you for a leather cent," he said. In the tumult his words were lost, but the look on his face was enough. The exhorter fell away.
Their retreat was unnoted in the tumult. At the door they looked back for an instant at the scene.
At the mourners' bench were six victims in all stages of induced catalepsy, one man with head flung back, one with his hands pointing, fixed in furious appeal. Another with bowed head was being worked upon by a brother of hypnotic appeal. He struck with downward, positive gestures on either side of the victim's head.
Over another the negress towered, screaming with panther-like ferocity:—