"One," he answered, "who has come to see fair play, and who has--as
you may see--for the moment some little influence with this rabble.
I will continue to exert it while I can, if you on your part will
forbear to provoke; for the tongue, madam, has its missiles as well
as the hands."
"I thank you, sir," said the grey-headed preacher, stepping forward
and thrusting a book into my father's hands. "We had best begin with
a hymn, I think. I have some experience of the softening power of
music on these occasions."
"We will sing," announced the woman, "that beautiful hymn beginning,
'Into a world of ruffians sent.' Common metre, my friends, and
Sister Tresize will give the pitch:
"Into a world of ruffians sent,
I walk on hostile ground--"
My father bared his head and opened the hymn-book; the rest of us,
bareheaded too, ranged ourselves beside him; and so we stood facing
the mob while the verses were sung in comparative quiet. The words
might be provocative, but few heard them. The tune commanded an
audience, as in Cornwall a tune usually will. The true secret of the
spell, however, lay in my father's presence and bearing.
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