upon the wall such as had menaced Belshazzar's feast of old? Of what
shameless girl was he telling,--what creature dressed in silks that should
have gone in rags, brought to that ball by her paramour--

The gaunt figure in the pulpit trembled like a leaf with the passion of
the preacher's convictions and the energy of his utterance. On had gone
the stream of rhetoric, the denunciations, the satire, the tremendous
assertions of God's mind and purposes. The lash that was wielded was
far-reaching; all the vices of the age--irreligion, blasphemy,
drunkenness, extravagance, vainglory, loose living--fell under its sting.
The condemnation was general, and each man looked to see his neighbor
wince. The occurrence at the ball last night,--he was on that for final
theme, was he? There was a slight movement throughout the congregation.
Some glanced to where would have sat Mr. Marmaduke Haward, had not the
gentleman been at present in his bed, raving now of a great run of luck at
the Cocoa Tree; now of an Indian who, with his knee upon his breast, was
throttling him to death. Others looked over their shoulders to see if that
gypsy yet sat beneath the gallery. Colonel Byrd took out his snuffbox and
studied the picture on the lid, while his daughter sat like a carven lady,
with a slight smile upon her lips.

On went the word picture that showed how vice could flaunt it in so fallen
an age. The preacher spared not plain words, squarely turned himself
toward the gallery, pointed out with voice and hand the object of his
censure and of God's wrath. Had the law pilloried the girl before them
all, it had been but little worse for her. She sat like a statue, staring
with wide eyes at the window above the altar. This, then, was what the
words in the coach last night had meant--this was what the princess
thought--this was what his world thought--