The flabby minister flushed, and then made an effort to hold his own.
"I speak as I am moved," he said, puffing out his lips. "You spoke on
this occasion before you were moved--just a little while before,"
answered Ingolby grimly. "The speaking was last night, the moving comes
today."
"I don't get your meaning," was the thick rejoinder. The man had a
feeling that there was some real danger ahead.
"You preached a sermon last night which might bring riot and bloodshed
between these two towns, though you knew the mess that's brewing."
"My conscience is my own. I am responsible to my Lord for words which I
speak in His name, not to you."
"Your conscience belongs to yourself, but your acts belong to all of us.
If there is trouble at the Orange funeral to-morrow it will be your
fault. The blame will lie at your door."
"The sword of the Spirit--"
"Oh, you want the sword, do you? You want the sword, eh?" Ingolby's jaw
was set now like a millstone. "Well, you can have it, and have it now. If
you had taken what I said in the right way, I would not have done what
I'm going to do. I'm going to send you out of Lebanon. You're a bad and
dangerous element here. You must go."
"Who are you to tell me I must go?"
The fat hands quivered on the table with anger and emotion, but also with
fear of something.
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