The Northern Iron. George A. Birmingham
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The little meeting-house was scantily furnished. A high, octangular wooden pulpit with a precentor’s pew in front of it stood at the far end. The place was bare of hanging or cupboard which could have been used as a hiding-place. The men tramped about, upsetting the benches and cursing as they tripped upon them.
“It’s as dark as hell,” said Captain Twinely. “Send a man down to the minister’s house and let him fetch up a bundle of bogwood to serve us for torches. I must have light.”
One of the men departed on the errand. The sergeant, mounted on the pulpit, rapped on the desk in front of him to secure silence, and said in a high-pitched, drawling voice—
“Beloved! Brands snatched from the burning! Sanctified vessels! Let us, in this hour of trial and tribulation, when the ungodly triumph and prosper in their way, let us sing the Ould Hunderd to the comfort of our souls.”
At the sound of his voice the troopers who remained outside crowded into the building, leaving two or three of their number to take care of the horses. Well satisfied with his congregation, the sergeant sang to the tune sanctified by two centuries of Puritan worship:—
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