- end_line
- 5645
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:55:03.879Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 5580
- text
- columns down the nave, the clusterings of them into copses about the
corners of the transept; together with the subdued, dim-streaming light
from the autumnal glasses; all assumed a secluded and deep-wooded air. I
seemed gazing from Pisgah into the forests of old Canaan. A Puseyitish
painting of a Madonna and Child, adorning a lower window, seemed showing
to me the sole tenants of this painted wilderness--the true Hagar and
her Ishmael.
With added trepidation I stole softly back to the magic-lantern
platform; and revived myself a little by peeping through the scratch,
upon the unstained light of open day. But what is to be done, thought I
again.
I descended to the door; listened there; heard nothing. A third time
climbing the stone steps, once more I stood in the magic-lantern, while
the full nature of the more than awkwardness of my position came over
me.
The first persons who will re-enter the temple, mused I, will doubtless
be the beadle-faced man and the bell-ringer. And the first man to come
up here, where I am, will be the latter. Now what will be his natural
impressions upon first descrying an unknown prowler here? Rather
disadvantageous to said prowler’s moral character. Explanations will be
vain. Circumstances are against me. True, I may hide, till he retires
again. But how do I know that he will then leave the door unlocked?
Besides, in a position of affairs like this, it is generally best, I
think, to anticipate discovery, and by magnanimously announcing
yourself, forestall an inglorious detection. But how announce myself?
Already have I knocked, and no response. That moment my eye, impatiently
ranging round about, fell upon the bell-ropes. They suggested the usual
signal made at dwelling-houses to convey tidings of a stranger’s
presence. But I was not an outside caller; alas, I was an inside
prowler. But one little touch of that bell-rope would be sure to bring
relief. I have an appointment at three o’clock. The beadle-faced man
must naturally reside very close by the church. He well knows the
peculiar ring of his own bell. The slightest possible hum would bring
him flying to the rescue. Shall I, or shall I not? But I may alarm the
neighbourhood. Ah, no; the merest tingle, not by any means a loud,
vociferous peal. Shall I? Better voluntarily bring the beadle-faced man
to me, than be involuntarily dragged out from this most suspicious
hiding-place. I have to face him, first or last. Better now than later.
Shall I?
No more. Creeping to the rope, I gave it a cautious twitch. No sound. A
little less warily. All was dumb. Still more strongly. Horrors! My
hands, instinctively clapped to my ears, only served to condense the
appalling din. Some undreamed-of mechanism seemed to have been touched.
The bell must have thrice revolved on its thunderous axis, multiplying
the astounding reverberation.
My business is effectually done this time, thought I, all in a tremble.
Nothing will serve me now but the reckless confidence of innocence
reduced to desperation.
In less than five minutes I heard a running noise beneath me; the lock
of the door clicked, and up rushed the beadle-faced man, the
perspiration starting from his cheeks.
‘You! Is it _you_? The man I turned away this very morning, skulking
here? You dare to touch that bell? Scoundrel!’
And ere I could defend myself, seizing me irresistibly in his powerful
grasp, he tore me along by the collar, and dragging me down the stairs,
thrust me into the arms of three policemen, who, attracted by the sudden
toll of the bell, had gathered curiously about the porch.
- title
- Chunk 5