But at this moment the conversation was interrupted by the riding up of four or five gentlemen on horseback, the headmost of whom was Clayton.
"What's this?" he exclaimed, hurriedly. "What, Mr. Gordon—father Dickson! What—what am I to understand by this?"
"Who the devil cares what you understand? It's no business of yours," said Tom Gordon; "so stand out of my way!"
"I shall make it some of my business," said Clayton, turning round to one of his companions. "Mr. Brown, you are a magistrate?"
Mr. Brown, a florid, puffy-looking old gentleman, now rode forward.
"Bless my soul, but this is shocking! Mr. Gordon, don't! how can you? My boys, you ought to consider!"
Clayton, meanwhile, had thrown himself off his horse, and cut the cords which bound Father Dickson to the tree. The sudden reaction of feeling overcame him. He fell, fainting.
"Are you not ashamed of yourselves?" said Clayton, indignantly glancing round. "Isn't this pretty business for great, strong men like you, abusing ministers that you know won't fight, and women and children that you know can't!"
"Do you mean to apply that language to me?" said Tom Gordon.
"Yes, sir, I do mean just that!" said Clayton, looking at him, while he stretched his tall figure to its utmost height.