The figure of Augusta Goold rose to his mind.

She flashed before him, an Apocalyptic angel, splended and terrible, trumpet-calling him to the last great fight.

He forgot in an instant the Quinns and their trouble.

The years of quietness in Ballymoy, the daily intercourse with gentle people, the atmosphere of the religion in which he had lived, fell away from him suddenly.
He sat absorbed in an ecstasy of joyful excitement until the jangling of Canon Beecher's church bell recalled him to common life again.

It speaks for the strength of the habits he had formed in Ballymoy that he rose without hesitation and went to take his part in the morning service.
He sat down as usual beside Marion Beecher and her harmonium.