Here he again glared at my father, whose blood was boiling. George had not positively forbidden him to speak out; he therefore sprang to his feet, “You lying hound,” he cried, “I am the Sunchild, and you know it.”
George, who knew that he had my father in his own hands, made no attempt to stop him, and was delighted that he should have declared himself though he had felt it his duty to tell him not to do so. Yram turned pale. Hanky roared out, “Tear him in pieces—leave not a single limb on his body. Take him out and burn him alive.” The vergers made a dash for him—but George’s brothers seized them. The crowd seemed for a moment inclined to do as Hanky bade them, but Yram rose from her place, and held up her hand as one who claimed attention. She advanced towards George and my father as unconcernedly as though she were merely walking out of church, but she still held her hand uplifted. All eyes were turned on her, as well as on George and my father, and the icy calm of her self-possession chilled those who were inclined for the moment to take Hanky’s words literally. There was not a trace of fluster in her gait, action, or words, as she said—
“My friends, this temple, and this day, must not be profaned with blood. My son will take this poor madman to the prison. Let him be judged and punished according to law. Make room, that he and my son may pass.”
Then, turning to my father, she said, “Go quietly with the Ranger.”
Having so spoken, she returned to her seat as unconcernedly as she had left it.
Hanky for a time continued to foam at the mouth and roar out, “Tear him to pieces! burn him alive!” but when he saw that there was no further hope of getting the people to obey him, he collapsed on to a seat in his pulpit, mopped his bald head, and consoled himself with a great pinch of a powder which corresponds very closely to our own snuff.
George led my father out by the side door at the north end of the western aisle; the people eyed him intently, but made way for him without demonstration. One voice alone was heard to cry out, “Yes, he is the Sunchild!” My father glanced at the speaker, and saw that he was the interpreter who had taught him the Erewhonian language when he was in prison.
George, seeing a special constable close by, told him to bid his brothers release the vergers, and let them arrest the interpreter—this the vergers, foiled as they had been in the matter of my father’s arrest, were very glad to do. So the poor interpreter, to his dismay, was lodged at once in one of the Bank prison-cells, where he could do no further harm.
XVII
George Takes His Father to Prison, and There Obtains Some Useful Information
By this time George had got my father into the open square, where he was surprised to find that a large bonfire had been made and lighted. There had been nothing of the kind an hour before; the wood, therefore, must have been piled and lighted while people had been in church. He had no time at the moment to enquire why this had been done, but later on he discovered that on the Sunday morning the Manager of the new temple had obtained leave from the Mayor to have the wood piled in the square, representing that this was Professor Hanky’s contribution to the festivities of the day. There had, it seemed, been no intention of lighting it until nightfall; but it had accidentally caught fire through the carelessness of a workman, much about the time when Hanky began to preach. No one for a moment believed that there had been any sinister intention, or that Professor Hanky when he urged the crowd to burn my father alive, even knew that there was a pile of wood in the square at all—much less that it had been lighted—for he could hardly have supposed that the wood had been got together so soon. Nevertheless both George and my father, when they knew all that had passed, congratulated themselves on the fact that my father had not fallen into the hands of the vergers, who would probably have tried to utilise the accidental fire, though in no case is it likely they would have succeeded.
As soon as they were inside the gaol, the old Master recognised my father. “Bless my heart—what? You here, again, Mr. Higgs? Why, I thought you were in the palace of the sun your father.”
“I wish I was,” answered my father, shaking hands with him, but he could say no more.
“You are as safe here as if you were,” said George laughing, “and safer.” Then turning to his grandfather, he said, “You have the record of Mr. Higgs’s marks and measurements? I know you have: take him to his old cell; it is the best in the prison; and then please bring me the record.”
The old man took George and my father to the cell which he had occupied twenty years earlier—but I cannot stay to describe his feelings on finding himself again within it. The moment his grandfather’s back was turned, George said to my father, “And now shake hands also with your son.”
As he spoke he took my father’s hand and pressed it warmly between both his own.
“Then you know you are my son,” said my father as steadily as the strong emotion that mastered him would permit.
“Certainly.”
“But you did not know this when I was walking with you on Friday?”
“Of course not. I thought you were Professor Panky; if I had not taken you for one of the two persons named in your permit, I should have questioned you closely, and probably ended
