The old man was excited, indignant, fearless.
Conway looked at him in wonder akin to fear. Even as the idolaters of old looked at Jeremiah and Isaiah.
“Why—why is it”—went on the old man earnestly, rising and shaking his finger ominously—“that two generations of cocktails will breed cock-fighters, and two generations of whiskey will breed a scrub? Do you know where you'll end? In bein' a scrub? No, no—you will be dead an' the worms will have et you—but”—he pointed to the house—“you are fixin' to make scrubs of them—they will breed back.
“Go back to the plough—quit this whiskey and be the man your people was. If you do not,” he said rising to go—“God will crush you—not kill you, but mangle you in the killin'.”
“He has done that already,” said Conway bitterly. “He has turned the back of His hand on me.”
“Not yet”—said the Bishop—“but it will fall and fall there.” He pointed to Helen, whose queenly head could be seen in the old parlor as she trummed out a sad love song.
Conway blanched and his hand shook. He felt a nameless fear—never felt before. He looked around, but the old man was gone. Afterwards, as he remembered that afternoon, he wondered if, grown as the old man had in faith, God had not also endowed him with the gift of prophecy.