"Give it to me, old man!" Mark muttered through his teeth.
"Nay, my friend, you must not have it," replied Father Brighthopes, firmly, but kindly.
"I must not? You mean to govern me like a boy, on my own ground?" hissed the angry man. "Let go your hold!"
"I entreat you, pause one minute to consider," said the clergyman, meekly. "Then you shall have the club, to use it as you please."
His words had no effect, except to turn the tide of Mark's fury against him. The angry man raved at him with a tempest of oaths; shaking his fist in his face, he swore that, were it not for his white hairs, he would have crushed him beneath his heel.
"God have mercy on you!" said Father Brighthopes, with solemn earnestness, and with tears.
"None of your pious nonsense here!" thundered Mark, convulsed with passion. "Let go the club, or I shall break your arms."
"You will not break an old man's arms," replied the clergyman, with sublime energy. "No, Mark Wheeler! I know you better. You cannot injure me."
The strong hand of the jockey seized the old man's shoulder. The latter seemed but a frail child in his grasp; but still he did not shrink, nor loose his hold of the club. To Chester and his father, who sprang to rescue him, he said,
"Do not touch him. I am not afraid. He dare not hurt me. I am in the hands of my God."