"Not now, Petherick," the Vicar whispered back. "Go to your seat."
"I bean't in fault, and say it I woll," said the man. Then in a low tone, which, in the breathless silence of the congregation, penetrated to the remotest corner of the gallery, he added:
"Maister Mildmay and riding-officer was in belfry, tied round the middle to bell."
"God bless my soul!" murmured the astonished Vicar unconsciously. "This is unseemly," he said sternly: "'tis brawling. Go to your place, Petherick."
The beadle marched to his seat under the pulpit with the air of one who had spoken his mind and scorned rebuke. Those of the congregation who had been in the secret tittered when he made his announcement; the larger number, who were vaguely aware that something had happened to the officers, but did not know its nature, gazed at one another with startled looks, which speedily changed to smiles. The occupants of the Squire's pew alone preserved their composure. Mr. Carlyon's stern look silenced the giggles and whispers of the frivolous, and the service proceeded.
The hymn had been sung, the Vicar was in the midst of the prayer for the King's Majesty, and had just recited the words "our most gracious sovereign Lord King George," when a man quietly entered from the outer porch, and stood within the church beneath the gallery. The heads of the congregation were bent forward, so that his presence was unnoticed. The prayer came to an end; everybody said "Amen," but one voice rose above all the rest. It was that of the new-comer. Tonkin, in his pew a few paces down the aisle, started and turned his head like one thunderstruck. A bruise was noticeable on his right cheek. All held their breath as Joe Penwarden marched steadily down the aisle to his seat near the riding-officer's. As he passed the Vicar, he raised his hand to the salute, then knelt quietly at his place, where the coloured sunbeam, streaming in through the south window, lit up his weather-beaten face.
That dramatic scene in the church was talked of in Polkerran for many a long year. A deep hush had fallen upon the whole congregation; even the most fractious and fidgety children felt awed, by they scarcely knew what. Consternation held the smugglers rigid in their seats. John Trevanion's face turned sea-green, and the smile by which he tried to conceal from the congregation the mingled emotions—surprise, rage, even fear—that possessed him, did but reveal them the more clearly to two pair of eyes in the Squire's pew.
Meanwhile the Vicar had turned over a few leaves of his prayer-book. Now, in a peculiarly solemn tone, he began to read the thanksgiving "For peace and deliverance from our enemies." The words rolled through the church: "We yield Thee praise and thanksgiving for our deliverance from these great and apparent dangers wherewith we were compassed"; and at the close Penwarden's voice was again uplifted in a loud and prolonged "Amen."
Mr. Carlyon was a man of tact. He knew very well that his people would be on tenter-hooks until they could discuss these strange incidents. It was no time to preach to them. A sermon was not an essential part of the service. Accordingly he finished the order for morning prayer and gave the Blessing without ascending into the pulpit. The congregation streamed forth. Tonkin and his friends in a knot hurried down to the inn, followed closely by the tub-carriers of the previous night, whom Doubledick had invited to meet him there. John Trevanion came out alone, and walked rapidly homeward, without a word or a look to anyone. The rest went their several ways, except the Squire and his family, and Penwarden, whom Mr. Carlyon invited to the Parsonage. There they found Mr. Mildmay and the riding-officer sitting in the sunlight at an open window, sipping toddy and taking snuff, thoughtfully brought to them by the housekeeper.
"Upon my word," said the Vicar, on beholding their wrathful countenances, "if I had not so lately taken off my surplice I fear I should laugh. What is the meaning of it, gentlemen?"