A damned soul, looking up with wild eyes into his, was all
he saw--the very off scouring and filth of human nature--hell tinder, to
touch which in kindness was to risk his own salvation.
"Gaw, gaw! Else the Lard'll make me His weapon. He's whisperin'--He's
whisperin'!"
There was something horribly akin to genuine madness in the frenzy of this
utterance. Mrs. Tregenza screamed; Joan struggled to her feet in some
terror and her head swam. She turned to get her hat from the dresser-ledge,
and, as she did so, the little blue plate, tied up in paper beside it, fell
and broke, like the last link of a snapping chain. Gray Michael was making
a snorting in his nostrils and his head seemed to grow lower on his
shoulders. Then Mr. Chirgwin found his opportunity and spoke.
"I've heard you, an' it ban't human nachur to knuckle down dumb, so I be
gwaine to speak, an' you can mind or not as you please."
He flung his old hat upon the ground and walked without fear close beside
the fisherman who towered above him.
"God be with 'e, I sez, for you need En fine an' bad for sartain--worse'n
that poor 'mazed lamb shakin' theer. _You_ talk o' the ways o' God to
men an' knaw no more 'bout 'em than the feesh what you draw from the sea!
You'm choustin' yourself cruel wi' your self-righteousness--take it from
me. _You'm_ saved, be you? _You_ be gwaine to heaven, are 'e? Who
tawld 'e so, Michael Tregenza? Did God A'mighty send a flyin' angel to tell
'e a purpose? Look in your heart, man, an' see how much o' Christ be in it.
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