Mark's fist was raised to strike.
"I shall tear you to pieces!" he articulated, hoarse with rage.
"The Lord pity you! The Lord forgive you, for raising your hand against his servant!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with tears coursing down his pale cheeks. "Mark Wheeler, you cannot hurt me,—not if you kill me. But your own soul is in your grasp. My friend, I love you, I pray for you! You cannot make me angry. I will be a Christian towards you. I will pray for you! You cannot prevent that. Strike the old man to the earth, and his last words shall be a prayer for your darkened soul!"
Mark's clenched hand fell to his side; but with the other he still held the clergyman's shoulder, looking full in his face.
"My friend," said the old man, "you know I have but done my duty. I would not harm you, nor see you harmed. It is to defend you against yourself that I hold the club from you. You may, indeed, hurt my body, which is old, and not worth much, but you will hurt your own soul a thousand, thousand times more. Oh, my God!" prayed the old man, raising his streaming eyes to heaven, "have mercy upon this my poor erring brother!"
Mark's hand dropped from the old man's shoulder. The flame in his eyes began to flicker. His lips quivered, and his face became pale. Father Brighthopes continued to pour out the overflowing waters of his heart, to quench the fire of passion. At length Mark's eyes fell, and he staggered backward. Then the old man took his hand, and put the club into it.
"Our minute is up. Here is the weapon," said he. "Use it as you will."
The club dropped upon the ground.
"Take it, and kill me with it!" muttered Mark. "I am not fit to live."
He sat down upon an overturned trough, and covered his face with his hands, gnashing his teeth.