" In the same village, a young man spoke favorably of
Mr. Coan's preaching in Jeloo. Instantly a woman called out, "And
have you heard those deceivers preach?" "Yes," was the reply, "both
last year and this, and hope I shall again." Hearing this, her eyes
flashed, and drawing her brawny arms into the form of a dagger, with
a vengeful thrust of her imaginary weapon, she cried, "The blood of
thy father smite thee, thou Satan!" and dreadful was the volley of
oaths and curses that followed. Yet she was only a fair specimen of
the village.
We of the calmer West do not know what it is to have a mob of such
women come forth in their wrath. In one town was a virago, who
often, single-handed, faced down and drove off Moslem tax-gatherers
when the men fled in terror. No one who has ever heard the stinging
shrillness of their tongues, or looked on their frenzied gestures,
can ever forget them, or wonder why the ancients painted the Furies
in the form of women. Words cannot portray the excitement of such a
scene. The hair of the frantic actors is streaming in the wind;
stones and clods seem only embodiments of the unearthly yells and
shrieks that fill the air; and yet it was such beings that grace
made to be "last at the cross and first at the sepulchre.
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