He lay upon a small bed in horrible condition.

His wife, with swollen eyes and pallid face, was sitting helpless upon the foot of the bed, worn out with vain efforts to soothe him.

His mother, a thin and dark old woman, vibrating with anathemas against his tormentors, led Susannah in and out of the room silently, as though to say, "This is the work of those whose virtue you extolled." The village, the low rolling hills about it, lay still in the glimmer of dawn.

The men of violence were sleeping as soundly, it seemed, as innocence may sleep.

The famous preacher, and all those souls that he had thrilled through and through for good and evil, were now wrapped in silence.