There
was something real in this power of God, and you could not finish
with it simply by disregarding it. She felt, as she had felt so
often lately, that some one was suddenly going to rise and demand
some oath or promise from her that she, in her panic, would give her
word and then would be caught for ever.
"By the love of Thy dear Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the
promise of Thy second coming, we beseech Thee" . . . finished Mr.
Warlock.
During all this time the atmosphere of the Chapel had been growing
hotter and hotter and closer and closer. It had always its air of
being buried deep under ground, bathed in a kind of sunken heat that
found its voice in the gas that hissed and sizzled overhead; near
the door was a long rail on which coats might be hung, and now these
garments could be seen, swaying a little to and fro, like corpses of
condemned men.
The bare ugliness of the building with its stone walls, its rows of
wooden seats, its grey windows, its iron-hung gas-lamps, its ugly
desk and platform, was veiled now in a thin steaming heat that rose
mistily above the heads of the kneeling congregation and seemed to
hide strange shapes and shadows in its shifting depths.
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