One of the party had already detached himself and crept forward toward the church, to meet his appointed comrade in the enterprise, who was to come in from the other side.
The clapboard church presented in the moonlight the austerest outlines, and as the men waited, a rude though unseen hand was slamming the wooden shutters that protected the windows from impious violence.
"We could do with less moon," muttered Habersham, as he and Griswold peered through the trees into the churchyard.
"There goes Bill Appleweight now," whispered one of the natives at his elbow, and Griswold felt his heart-beats quicken as he watched a tall figure silhouetted against the church and moving swiftly toward the rear of the building. At the front of the church voices sounded, as the departing worshipers rode or drove slowly away.
Habersham laid his hand suddenly on Griswold's arm.
"They've got him! They've nailed him! See! There! They're yanking him back into the timber. They've taken him and his horse!"
Griswold saw nothing but a momentary confusion of shadows, then perfect silence hung over the woods behind the little church. The congregation was slowly dispersing, riding away in little groups. Suddenly a voice called out in the road a hundred yards beyond the church:
"Hey there! Where's Bill?"
"Oh, he's gone long ago!" yelled another.