her clear grey eyes--she had her mother's eyes--fixed benignly on him,
turned to the quarter whence the voice came. Seeing who it was--a widow
who, with no demureness, had tried without avail to bring Luke Claridge
to her--her lips pressed together in a bitter smile, and she said to her
nephew clearly:

"Patience Spielman hath little hope of thee, David. Hope hath died in
her."

A faint, prim smile passed across the faces of all present, for all knew
Faith's allusion, and it relieved the tension of the past half-hour.
From the first moment David began to speak he had commanded his hearers.
His voice was low and even; but it had also a power which, when put to
sudden quiet use, compelled the hearer to an almost breathless silence,
not so much to the meaning of the words, but to the tone itself, to the
man behind it. His personal force was remarkable. Quiet and pale
ordinarily, his clear russet-brown hair falling in a wave over his
forehead, when roused, he seemed like some delicate engine made to do
great labours. As Faith said to him once, "David, thee looks as though
thee could lift great weights lightly." When roused, his eyes lighted
like a lamp, the whole man seemed to pulsate. He had shocked, awed, and
troubled his listeners. Yet he had held them in his power, and was
master of their minds. The interjections had but given him new means to
defend himself. After Faith had spoken he looked slowly round.

"I am charged with being profane," he said. "I do not remember. But is
there none among you who has not secretly used profane words and, neither
in secret nor openly, has repented? I am charged with drinking. On one
day of my life I drank openly. I did it because something in me kept
crying out, 'Taste and see!' I tasted and saw, and know; and I know that