In the morning it was found that his clothing was still wet, so, as it was absolutely necessary that he should go to fulfil an appointment, it was arranged that he should retain Matalette’s clothing, and return within a few days for his own.
Then Matalette, learning that the young man was traveling his circuit on foot, insisted on lending him a horse, and on giving him money with which to purchase one.
It was a great sum of money—more than his salary for a year amounted to—and the young man’s feelings almost overcame him as he tried to utter his thanks; but just then Helen made her first appearance during the morning, and from the instant she greeted Crewne all thoughts of gratitude seemed to escape his mind, unless, indeed, he suddenly determined to express his thanks through a third party. Such a supposition would have been fully warranted by the expressive looks he cast upon Helen’s handsome face.
Had any member of the flock at Mount Pisgah Station seen these two young people during the moment or two which followed Helen’s appearance, he would have sorrowfully but promptly dismissed from his mind any expectation of hearing the sermon which Crewne had promised to preach at Mount Pisgah that morning. But the young preacher was of no ordinary human pattern: with sorrow, yet determination, he bade Helen good-by, and though, as he rode away, he frequently turned his head, he never stopped his horse.
Down the road through the dense forest he went, trying, by reading his Bible as he rode, to get his mind in proper condition for a mighty effort at Mount Pisgah. He wasn’t conscious of doing such a thing—he could honestly lay his hand on his heart and say he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind, yet somehow his Bible opened at the Song of Solomon. For a moment he read, but for a moment only; then he shut his lips tightly, and deliberately commenced reading the Book of Psalms.
He had fairly restored his mind to working shape, and was just whispering fervent thanks to the Lord, when a couple of horsemen galloped up to him. As he turned his head to see who they might be, he observed that each of them held a pistol in a very threatening manner. As he looked, however, the pistols dropped, and one of the riders indulged in a profane expression of disappointment.
“It’s Matalette’s clothes and horse, Jim,” he said to his companion, “but it’s the preacher’s face.”
“And you have been providentially deferred from committing a great crime!” exclaimed Crewne, with a reproving look. “Mr. Matalette took me in last night, wet, cold, and footsore; this morning I departed, refreshed, clothed and mounted. To rob a man who is so lavish of——”
“Beg your pardon, parson,” interrupted one of the men, “but you haven’t got the right pig by the ear. We’re not highwaymen. I’m the sheriff of this county, and Jim’s a constable. And as for Matalette, he’s a counterfeiter, and we’re after him.”
Crewne dropped his bridle-rein, and his lower jaw, as he exclaimed: