flood. "At last it's about your hearts, your hearts
are immersed in the Sacred Tide."

A man beside Gordon groaned and dropped upon
his knees. A woman cried, "God! God! God!"
A spindling, overgrown boy rose fumbling at his
throat. "I can't breathe," he choked, "I can't--"
His face grew purplish, congested. The tumult
swelled, directed, dominated, by the voice of the
revivalist. He dropped upon his knees, and, amid
the sobbing silence, pled with an invisible Judge
hovering, apparently, over a decision to destroy at
one bloody blow the recalcitrant peoples of the
earth, the peoples of His making.

"Spare us," he implored; "spare us, the sheep
of hell; lead us to Thy shining pasture... still
water; lead us from the great fire of the eternal pit,
from the boiling bodies of the unsaved..."

Gordon Makimmon indifferently regarded the
clamor. The process of "getting religion" was familiar,
commonplace. He saw Tol'able sitting on
a back bench; with a mutual gesture the two men
rose and left the tent.

"I had to bring m'wife," Tol'able explained;
"did you see her sitting on the platform? She's
one of the main grievers. I got some good licker
in the wagon -- better have a comforter."

They walked down to a dusty, two-seated surrey,
where, from under a horse blanket, Tol'able pro-

[[188]]

p187 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p188w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p189

v?