He knew just where he was going, and walked so fast that before anyone had time to realize what was happening, he was on the altar steps, and facing the congregation. You could hear the gasp of amazement; he was so absolutely identical with the painted figure over his head, that if he had remained still, you could not have told which was painting and which was flesh and blood. The rector in the pulpit stood with his mouth open, staring as if seeing a ghost. The prophet stretched out both his hands, and pointed two accusing fingers at the congregation. His voice rang out, stern and commanding: “Let this mockery cease!” Again he cried: “What do ye with my Name?” And pointing over his head: “Ye crucify me in stained glass!”
There came murmurs from the congregation, the first mutterings of a storm. “Oh! Outrageous! Blasphemy!”
“Blasphemy?” cried Carpenter. “Is it not written that God dwelleth not in temples made with hands? Ye have built a temple to Mammon, and defile the name of my Father therein!”
The storm grew louder. “This is preposterous!” exclaimed my uncle Timothy at my side. And the Reverend Lettuce-Spray managed to find his voice. “Sir, whoever you are, leave this church!”
Carpenter turned upon him. “You give orders to me—you who have brought back the moneychangers into my Father's temple?” And suddenly he faced the congregation, crying in a voice of wrath: “Algernon de Wiggs! Stand up!”
Strange as it may seem, the banker rose in his pew; whether under the spell of Carpenter's majestic presence, or preparing to rush at him and throw him out, I could not be sure. The great banker's face was vivid scarlet.
And Carpenter pointed to another part of the congregation. “Peter Dexter! Stand up!” The president of the Dexter Trust Company also arose, trembling as if with palsy, mumbling something, one could not tell whether protest or apology.
“Stuyvesant Gunning! Stand up!” And the president of the Fidelity National obeyed. Apparently Carpenter proposed to call the whole roll of financial directors; but the procedure was halted suddenly, as a tall, white-robed figure strode from its seat near the choir. Young Sidney Simpkinson, assistant to the rector, went up to Carpenter and took him by the arm.
“Leave this house of God,” he commanded.
The other faced him. “It is written, Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain.”
Young Simpkinson wasted no further words in parley. He was an advocate of what is known as “muscular Christianity,” and kept himself in trim playing on the parish basket-ball team. He ............