hen the
first thrill of instinctive protest ran through him as the voices of old
and young arose in a hymn:

"There is a dreadful hell
And everlasting pains,
Where sinners do with devils dwell,
In darkness, fire and chains."

Thus bellowed the strong voices of the men and the reedier tones of the
women, while the clear little pipes of the children went up
complacently. Ishmael was not alarmed yet, but his attention was
attracted. Then Abimelech went up into the pulpit and stood there a few
moments with closed eyes, communing with unseen powers before entering
on the good fight. When he opened them it could be seen that in one he
had a slight cast; this was wont to grow more marked with emotion, and
gave at all times the disconcerting impression that he was looking every
way at once. It seemed to Ishmael that that light glittering gaze was
fixed on him, and he was aware of acute discomfort. Annie whispered him
sharply not to fidget, and the next moment the preacher gave out his
text: "For many are called, but few are chosen." With a long breath of
anticipation the congregation settled itself to listen.

Of what was done and said that evening Ishmael fortunately only carried
away a blurred impression, owing to the frenzy that it all threw him
into. Every text in the Old Testament and the New that bore on hell-fire
and the unrelenting wrath of God the preacher poured down. He impressed
on his hearers that eternity went on for ever and ever, that each
night's sleep in this world might be the last moment of unconsciousness
the soul would know for everlasting. He painted man as being guilty from
his start, only to be saved by the grace of this offended tyrant Who had
made him vile because it seemed good to Him so to do. The preacher
called on all present to flee from the wrath to come, from the
inevitable condemnation hanging over them if they persisted in their
sins; he talked of lusts and dishonesties and lies and envyings, and
accused everyone of all of them. Ishmael, his heart turning cold within
him, remembered how he had lied to the Parson about that evening's
meeting, how he lied to his mother many times a day for the sake of
ease; remembered how he and Jacka's John-Willy had pored over a snail
which they had unearthed in the act of laying her eggs. There they were,
still adhering to her--a cluster of little opaque white spheres, like
soapy bubbles. He and John-Willy had used the occasion to try and add