"Ay, it is!" Martin retorted swiftly, though with the same caution. "For when wise men turn fools, fools are put to it to act up to their profession! You see, brother?" And he deliberately cut a caper. His eyes were glittering, and the nerves on one side of his face twitched oddly. Baldwin looked at him, and muttered that Martin was going to have one of his mad fits. What had grown on the fool of late?
The knight reached the church porch and passed through the crowd which awaited him there. Save for its unusual size and some strange faces to be seen on its skirts, there was no indication of trouble. He walked, tapping his stick on the pavement a little more loudly than usual, to his place in the front pew. The household, the villagers, the strangers, pressed in behind him until every seat was filled. Even the table monument of Sir Piers Cludde, which stood lengthwise in the aisle, was seized upon, and if the two similar monuments which stood to right and left below the chancel steps had not been under the knight's eyes, they too would have been invaded. Yet all was done decently and in order, with a clattering of rustic boots indeed, but no scrambling or ill words. The Clopton men were there. Baldwin had marked them well, and so had a dozen stout fellows, sons of Sir Anthony's tenants. But they behaved, discreetly, and amid such a silence as Father Carey never remembered to have faced, he began the Roman service.
The December light fell faintly through the east window on the Father at his ministrations, on his small acolytes, on the four Cludde brasses before the altar. It fell everywhere--on gray dusty walls buttressed by gray tombs which left but a narrow space in the middle of the chancel. The marble crusader to the left matched the canopied bed of Sir Anthony's parents on the right; the Abbess's tomb in the next row faced the plainer monument of Sir Anthony's wife, a vacant place by her side awaiting his own effigy. And there were others. The chancel was so small--nay, the church too--so small and old and gray and solid, and the tombs were so massive, that they elbowed one another. The very dust which rose as men stirred was the dust of Cluddes. Sir Anthony's brow relaxed. He listened gravely and sadly.
And then the interruption came. "I protest!" a rough voice in rear of the crowd cried suddenly, ringing harshly and strangely above the Father's accents and the solemn hush. "I protest against this service!"
A thrill of astonishment ran through the crowd, and all rose. Every man in the church turned round, Sir Anthony among the first, and looked in the direction of the voice. Then it was seen that the Clopton men had massed themselves about the door in the southwest corner--a strong position, whence retreat was easy. Father Carey, after a momentary glance, went on as if he had not heard; but his voice shook, and all still waited with their faces turned toward the west end.
"I protest in the name of the Queen!" the same man cried sharply, while his fellows raised a murmur so that the priest's voice was drowned.
Sir Anthony stepped into the aisle, his face inflamed with anger. The interruption taking place there, in that place, seemed to him a double profanation.
"Who is that brawler?" he said, his hand trembling on his staff; and all the old dames trembled too. "Let him stand out."
The sheriff's spokesman was so concealed by his fellows that he could not be seen; but he answered civilly enough.
"I am no brawler," he said. "I only require the law to be observed; and that you know, sir. I am here on behalf of the sheriff; and I warn all present that a continuation of this service will expose them to grievous pains and penalties. If you desire it, I will read the royal order to prove that I do not speak without warrant."