The doctor turned an observant eye on his companion's clerical coat.
"Shall we hear these sentiments next Sunday from the pulpit?" he asked, mildly.
The Vicar had the grace to blush slightly.
"I say, no doubt, more than I should say," he admitted. Then he rose, buttoning his long coat down his long body deliberately, as though by the action he tried to restrain the surge within; but it overflowed all the same. "I know now," he said, with a kindling eye, holding out a gaunt hand in farewell, "what our Lord meant by sending, not peace--but a sword!"
"So, no doubt, did Torquemada!" replied the doctor, surveying him.
The Vicar rose to the challenge.
"I will be no party to the usual ignorant abuse of the Inquisition," he said, firmly. "We live in days of license, and have no right to sit in judgment on our forefathers."
"Your forefathers," corrected the doctor. "Mine burned."
The Vicar first laughed; then grew serious. "Well, I'll allow you two opinions on the Inquisition, but not--" he lifted a gesticulating hand--"not two opinions on mines which are death-traps for lack of a little money to make them safe--not on the kind of tyranny which says to a man: 'Strike if you like, and take a week's notice at the same time to give up your cottage, which belongs to the colliery'--or, 'Make a fuss about allotments if you dare, and see how long you keep your berth in my employment: we don't want any agitators here'--or maintains, against all remonstrance, a brutal manager in office, whose rule crushes out a man's self-respect, and embitters his soul!"
"You charge all these things against Marsham?"