Sunday morning, and was the key to the tremendous sensation it produced.
The next day long before the hour of service the street in front of the Pilgrim Church was packed with a dense crowd.
The police could scarcely clear the way for the members' entrance. Within ten minutes from the time the large doors were opened every seat was filled and hundreds stood on the pavements outside, waiting developments, unable to gain admission.
So many statements had been made, and so many vicious insinuations hinted, Gordon was compelled to lay aside his sermon and devote the entire hour to a defense of his position.
The crowd listened in breathless stillness, but he knew from the first he had lost their sympathies and that he was on trial. Unable to tell the whole truth, his address was as lame and ineffective as his outburst the Sunday before had been resistless. When he dismissed the crowd he noticed that some of his warmest friends were crying.
As he came down from the pulpit, Ludlow took him by the hand and, with trembling voice, said:
"Pastor, you know how I love you?"
What he did not say was more eloquent than a thousand words, and it cut Gordon to his inmost soul. He knew his failure had been pathetic, and that his enemies were laughing over the certainty of his ruin.
It angered him for a moment as he looked over
