“It seems so to me,” the doctor replied.  “And I assure you that there is no irreverence in the scientific curiosity which I feel in this extraordinary epidemic of religious frenzy; for it is certainly something of that sort.  It is unmistakably contagious.  I have become more and more certain of that as I have watched the poor wretches who are shrieking down yonder.  It is a mental and moral epidemic, and so highly contagious that it has swept the whole state, till it now sweeps the remotest corner of the wilderness.  And it seems to have originated in Kentucky.  It is something peculiarly our own.”

“Yes,” said Father Orin, “Kentucky is the pioneer in religion, as well as politics, for the whole West.  But my church came first,” he added with a chuckle.  “Remember that!  The Catholics always lead the way and clear up the brush, with the Methodists following close behind.  I got a little the start of brother Peter Cartwright; but that was my good luck, and not any lack of zeal on his part.  And I’ve got to stir my stumps to keep ahead of him, I can tell you.”

“He is down there at the meeting to-night, no doubt.  He is its leading spirit.  I should like to know what he really thinks of it all.  He is by nature a wonderfully intelligent young fellow.  And what do you really think of it, Father?” the doctor pressed.  “Is this the same thing that has come down the ages?  Is it the same that we find in the Bible—­making great men and wise ones do such wild things?  Is it the same that made a dignified gentleman, like David, dance—­as those fanatics are doing down there—­till he became a laughing-stock?  Is it the same that made a sensible man like Saul join his faith to a witch and believe that he saw visions?  And then, just remember the scandalous capers—­even worse than the others—­that the decent Jeremiah cut.”

“Tut!  Tut!  Tut!” exclaimed the priest, in a voice that betrayed a smile.  “Those were holy men, my young friend.  I cannot allow them to be laughed at.”

“Oh, come now, Father, be honest,” said the doctor, laughing aloud, but adding quickly in a serious tone:  “I am quite in earnest.  What do you make of it all?  I should greatly like to have your opinion.  Is there anything in the science of your profession to explain it?  There isn’t in mine.  The more of it I see, and the longer I study it, the farther I am from finding its source, its cause, and its real character.  There!  Just hear that!”

“Well, well,” said Father Orin, with a sigh of evasion, “if you are going on to the camp-meeting, Toby and I will have to leave you here.  We have a sick call ’way over on the Eagle Creek flats.  And it’s a ticklish business, going over there in the dark, isn’t it, old man?” he said, patting his big gray horse.  “The last time we went in the night the limb of a tree, that I couldn’t see, dragged me from the saddle.”  He laughed as if this were a joke on Toby or himself, or both.  “But Toby is a better swimmer than I am.  He’s better at a good many things.  He got me out all right that time and a good many other times.  He always does his part of our duty, and never lets me shirk mine, if he can help it.  Well, then, we must be moving along, Toby, old man.”  He turned suddenly to the boy.  “Will you go with me, David?  My way passes close to Cedar House.”