Ingolby came to grips at once. "You preached a sermon last night which
no doubt was meant to do good, but will only do harm," he said abruptly.
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.
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