“The devil shan’t get us in the burning pit,” shouted the preacher.
“No, Lord,” said Granny.
“Lord save us,” shouted old man Lee in front.
Hazel grew frightened. She felt suffocated and wanted to get away. Glancing at Scipio she saw that he sat as stolid as ever, unmoved apparently by all that was going on about him.
“Scip,” she whispered, “I want to get out.”
He looked at her frightened face, and, taking her hand, butted with his head until he had made a way through the crowd of people standing between them and the open door. Then they passed out into the night.
The little moon was setting behind the trees. The air was fresh and cool, but not chill. Above were the peaceful stars.
“The heathen are burning,” shouted the preacher, “and every day the devil pours on fresh oil and the flames mount higher and higher to the sky.”
“Scip,” said Hazel with a quick breath, “do you believe in hell?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Scipio.