“I ate rats to provide a Beybile to the Respected,” the woman trembled.  “I—­”

“You are pathetic,” Towy said.  “Hie and get your tokens and have that poor one will I because of my pity for you.”

The woman told her deeds in Heaven’s Record Office, and she was given four white tablets on which her deeds were inscribed; and the rat tablet Towy took from her.  “Faith and hope are tidy heifers,” he said, “but a stallion is charity.  Priceless Beybile I give you, sinner.”

As he moved away Towy cried in the manner of one selling by auction:  “This is the beloved Beybile of Jesus.  This is the book of hymns—­old and new notations.  Hymns harvest, communion, funerals, Sunday schools, and hymns for children bach are here.  Treasures bulky for certain.”

For some he received three tablets each, for some five tablets each, and for some ten tablets each.  But the gaudy Bible which was decorated with pictures and ornamented with brass clasps and a leather covering he did not sell; nor did he sell the gilt-edged hymn-book.  Between the leaves of his Bible he put his tablets—­as a preacher his markers—­the writing on each tablet confirming a verse in the place it was set.  His labor over, he chanted:  “Pen Calvaria!  Pen Calvaria!  Very soon will come to view.”  Men and women gazed upon him, envying him; and those who had Bibles and hymn-books hastened to do as he had done.

Among the many that came to him was one whose name was Ben Lloyd.

“Dear me,” said Towy.

“Dear me,” said Ben.

“Fat is my religion after the springing,” cried Towy.  “Perished was I and up again.  Amen, Big Man.  Amen and amen.  And amen.

“I opened my eyes and I saw a hand thrusting aside the firmament and I heard One calling me from the beyond, and the One was God.”

“Like the roar of heated bulls was the noise, Ben bach.”

“Praise Him I did that I was laid to rest at home.  Away from the stir of Parliament.  Tell Him I will how my spirit, though the flesh was dead, bathed in the living rivers and walked in the peaceful valleys of the glorious land of my fathers—­thinking, thinking of Jesus.”

“Hold on.  Not so fast.  From Capel Bryn Salem I journeyed to mouth with my heart to the Lord, and your slut of widow paid me only four soferens.  Eloquent sermon I spouted and four soferens is the price of a supply.”

“In your charity forgive her; her sorrow was o’erpowering.”

“Sorrow!  The mule of an English!  She wasn’t there.”

“You don’t say,” cried Ben.  “If above she is I will have her dragged down.”

“Not a stone did she put over your head, and the strumpets of your sisters did not tend your grave.  Why you were not eaten by worms I can’t know.”

On a sudden Towy shouted:  “See an old parson do I. Is not this the day of rising up?  Awful if the Big Man mistakes us for the Church.  Not been inside a church have I, drop dead and blind, since I was born.”