“There’s no time to be lost, Parson,” said he from without. “The hounds are on the track of this game. It has only been by the most indefatigable energy that he has been kept from their grasp from the Ohio to near here. Even now they are abreast of us, only lured across the Pennsylvania line.”
“He can be gotten no farther to-night,” said the Parson musingly, “and all we can do is to put him in hold and keep him till the day goes by. You know the rest.”
There was no word of reply, but a figure gliding silently into the street, a vehicle, with muffled wheels, was headed southward and driven rapidly away. The parson having partially dressed himself, took a jug of water from the well, a loaf of bread and a large slice of meat from the pantry and beckoning the silent figure to follow him, proceeded to a building on the northwest corner of the square, on the front of which appeared the name, “George Hezlip.” Passing to the rear, he pushed aside a door. Both having entered, the door was closed, a light struck and the strange figure was soon reposing in one of several hogsheads carelessly stowed away there, whilst good Benjamin Fenn returned to his bed only to ponder on that mysterious providence which had predestined him to this materialistic work of salvation.
The Sabbath came, and with it, at the appointed hour, the people to the village church. The pastor preached with great power from the words, “Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof.”
That sermon was long a matter of comment among the people, a balm to some, a firebrand to others, according to the political faith they entertained, but orthodox to us all after the lapse of many years.
The services ended and dinner over, the Parson sat down to his study-table and penned the following:—
XXX. In Rome when the white rabbit hangs high the Prætor leads the Vestal band by linden fields, that he may hear the tuning of the great profaner’s voice ere the game goes to Quintus Anno Mundi.
The note thus written, was sealed and given to a trusty lad who soon placed it in the hands of an athletic, theological nimrod living in the village, whose love of humanity and admiration for universal redemption were only equalled by that of his affection for his dog, his gun and fishing tackle. When he had read the note, he bade the messenger tell the Parson “When the stars are out,” and proceeded at once to change his Sunday garb for a hunting suit.