He felt instinctively the growing
emotional tension about him, and knew in his bones that something would
break loose soon. He was keyed to a high pitch of interest to see just
what it would be like.
The storm broke in the middle of the second sermon on the second night.
The preacher had worked himself into a frenzy of emotional excitement.
His arms were waving over his head, his eyes blazing, his feet stamping,
his voice screaming in anguish as he described the agony of a soul lost
forever in the seething cauldron of eternal hell fire!
A tremulous startled moan, half-wail, half-scream came from a girl just
in front of the Boy, as she dropped her head in her hands.
"What's the matter with her?" he whispered. "Has she got a pain?"
His mother pressed his hand:
"Sh!"
And then the storm broke. From every direction came the startled cries
of long pent terror and anguish. The girl staggered to her feet and
started stumbling down the aisle to the mourners' bench without
invitation, and from every row of seats they tumbled, crowding on her
heels, sobbing, wailing, screaming, groaning.
The preacher ceased to talk and, in a high tremulous voice, that rang
through the excited crowd as the peal of the Archangel's trumpet, began
to sing:
"Come humble sinners in whose breasts
A thousand thoughts revolve!"
The crowd rose instinctively and all who were not mourning, joined in
the half-savage, terror-stricken wail of the song.
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