He paused and gazed about him. A few muttered words passed between the farmers, who, while Westcott was talking so persuasively, had recovered in great part from their emotional excitement. Dreeme, from his secret place of vantage, had listened with a reluctant admiration. He could understand that, given the blood impulses of these men and the dark shadow of ancestral urges and one-sided fanaticism, the speech just delivered would seem reasonable and convincing. This was what they had been fighting against half-heartedly for so many decades. The young doctor instinctively thought of all the crazy cults that permeated American life, the free love colonies, the Holy Rollers, the theosophical circles, the Rosicrucians, the Spiritualists, the esoteric societies, and he understood how easy it was to lead the secret wish into the deed. Westcott controlled these men now and he could do with them what he willed. They were ripe for a fanatical outbreak. As the young doctor observed the farmers he noted that there was no opposition whatsoever, no desire to question the truth of what Westcott was saying, no antagonistic rationalism. Even the white-haired Corey seemed to grow in stature to the farmer’s words, to take into himself, as it were, the essence of will of which Westcott spoke. As for the dominating farmer he stood upon the Devil Stone with sparkling eyes, an image of self-contained power, gazing down at the men before him. Bidwell’s nasal voice rose in the stillness.
“What must we do?” he asked.
Westcott shut his eyes. He appeared to be communing with invisible powers. Then he picked up the black book and held it against his breast. He said:
“We must throw all our strength into a sacrifice. Into this sacrifice we must wish all our weaknesses and when the ceremony is accomplished we shall be cleansed and bound together by an awful and secret knowledge.”
He paused and glanced about him as the men gazed fearfully at one another. Then he said:
“We must abolish fear. We must destroy the conscience. We may only do this by a terrible sacrifice.”
He shut his eyes and turned his face upward to the night.
“Asmodeus!” he cried. “Is this well?”
Suddenly from the recumbent body of the boy which lay near the circle of lanterns came the deep voice that they had heard before.
“A sacrifice!” he cried. “A sacrifice!”
At the same instant the bushes opposite Dreeme’s haven of concealment parted and the Reverend George Burroughs, tall, sallow, serious, stepped into the light of the lanterns. He walked slowly toward the rock, his eyes expressionless wells of darkness. Dreeme’s pulses beat faster at the sight of him for he understood that the presence of the preacher meant also the presence of Deborah. Beside him he felt Walden Slater cautiously move. The farmer seemed to be extricating something from beneath his coat. Burroughs paused by the rock, his long yellow hand resting lightly on the toad-like surface. He gazed about him calmly. Dreeme, as far away as he was, could sense the impalpable atmosphere of malevolence that emanated from the preacher. It was a still icy restrained power confident of itself and supremely indifferent. For the first time the young doctor saw the preacher as he was, a creature of vindictive strength and sly calculation, a quiet creeping madness that permeated Marlborough. If Jeffrey Westcott was the self-appointed god of this impossible fanaticism then George Burroughs was the high priest, the militant Satanist, the tactician who hid behind a veil of holiness. The man’s sallow horse-like countenance dominated the assembly although he had not spoken a word. Even the repressed hysteria of Jeffrey Westcott faded before this still horrible strength that poised lightly by the Devil’s Stone and with a single glance read the minds of the perturbed and chaotic farmers before him. Dreeme crouched lower in his place of concealment. Beside him he could feel the tense form of Walden Slater coiled like a heavy steel spring, ready to dart forth at the slightest gesture. There was strength in Walden Slater and it seemed to seep mercifully into the cold body of the young doctor. Burroughs opened his wide mouth and his neighing voice broke the shifting silence. He said:
“In the beginning there was nothing. But the Will moved on the face of the flickering gases and the Will established the earth and the vegetation on the face of the earth and the beasts and men who walked upon the face of the earth. And there were two gods. And one was the god of that weakness called good and the other was the god of that strength called evil. But the god of goodness was an invisible god who lived in
