Then he read this:
“August 11th, 18—. A strange thing occurred to-day. Thomas Wight, the sexton of St. John’s chapel, came to me in evident distress, and confessed a conspiracy in which he was concerned, or rather a wrong into which he had been tempted by the offer of gold, and which lay exceeding heavy on his heart. A young man had hired him to leave the chapel open after dark that evening, that he might come to be married secretly to a young and beautiful girl, and he told him, moreover, that he would bring his own clergyman with him to perform the ceremony. He paid the sexton a golden eagle to do him the service, which the poor fellow, conscience-smitten like Judas of old, came and delivered up to me for the poor. I resolved at once to investigate the affair, for it appeared to me as if a wrong of some kind was being perpetrated, wherein a young, trusting and perhaps motherless girl, like my own fair Isabel, was being deceived. The result proved even as I thought—a romance begun, a wrong beheaded.
“An hour before the time that Thomas Wight told me was set apart for the strange couple to come to the chapel, I repaired thither and concealed myself behind the drapery of a curtain in the robing-room. It was nearly dark, but not so dark but that I could distinguish objects quite distinctly, and I had not been there long before a young man, of perhaps thirty years, quietly entered, and immediately proceeded to disguise himself with a white wig and a full, flowing white beard. I knew then, beyond a doubt, that a great wrong was contemplated, for the hair and beard was an exact counterpart of my own. He then approached my private closet, took down the robe and surplice, and was about to put them on, when I stepped forth from my hiding-place and addressed him thus:
“‘Friend, what art thou about to do with these emblems of a sacred office? Those are holy vestures which none but a priest unto God has a right to wear.’
“The robe dropped from his nerveless hand upon the floor, and he turned a white, startled face to me.
“‘Who are you?’ he at length demanded, with an effort to recover himself.
“‘I am Bishop Grafton, and rector of St. John’s parish. Who are you?’ I asked mildly, in return.
“‘It does not matter who I am,’ he muttered, angrily, and standing before me with an exceedingly crest-fallen air; and I proceeded with solemn gravity:
“‘Friend, I learned this afternoon that a great wrong was to be committed here this evening, and I came here to stop it, if possible.’
“I spoke the words at a venture—and not so, either, for the man’s manner had convinced me of the fact already—and my words took immediate effect, for, with a muttered imprecation, he tore the wig and beard from his head and face and threw them also upon the floor beside the robe and surplice.