Now this Sunday morning there were only three or four, I think, beside
Mr. Glennie and Ratsey and the half-dozen of us boys, who crossed the
swampy meadows strewn with drowned shrew-mice and moles. Even my aunt was
not at church, being prevented by a migraine, but a surprise waited those
who did go, for there in a pew by himself sat Elzevir Block. The people
stared at him as they came in, for no one had ever known him go to church
before; some saying in the village that he was a Catholic, and others an
infidel. However that may be, there he was this day, wishing perhaps to
show a favour to the parson who had written the verses for David's
headstone. He took no notice of anyone, nor exchanged greetings with
those that came in, as was the fashion in Moonfleet Church, but kept his
eyes fixed on a prayer-book which he held in his hand, though he could
not be following the minister, for he never turned the leaf.
The church was so damp from the floods, that Master Ratsey had put a fire
in the brazier which stood at the back, but was not commonly lighted till
the winter had fairly begun. We boys sat as close to the brazier as we
could, for the wet cold struck up from the flags, and besides that, we
were so far from the clergyman, and so well screened by the oak backs,
that we could bake an apple or roast a chestnut without much fear of
being caught.
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