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There was no doubt that the preacher’s conduct
had exceeded all bounds. People were lenient in
those days—between 1820 and 1830—in the matter
of drink; but this man had utterly neglected his
sacred duties for its sake, and he was now to be
deprived of his office.
He stood in the pulpit as the last verse of the
hymn was being sung.
A certainty grew upon him, as he stood there,
that every one in the church was an enemy. The
gentry in the gallery, the peasants filling the nave,
the confirmation candidates in the choir, all were his
enemies, and so were the organ-blower and the
organist. The vestry-men’s pew was full of enemies.
They all hated and despised him, from the babies
in arms to the stiff and rigid sexton who had fought
at Leipzig. He longed to throw himself on his knees
before them and beg for mercy. But a moment later,
a silent storm of rage took possession of him. He
remembered only too well what he had been but a
short year ago, when he had stood in that pulpit for
the first time. He gave no cause for reproach then.
Now he stood there again and saw before him the
man with the gold cross, who had come to condemn
him.
While he read the introductory prayer, the blood
surged to his face in waves of anger.
He could not deny the charge—he had been
drinking. But who could blame him? Had they seen
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