But he had not gotten where he was by means of a chicken heart. He had the nimble wits of a confidence man and the nerve of a bank robber. His brain worked best under pressure. "Get the bottle, Elder, get the bottle for God's sake and hide it," he said, then silenced the brass band with a gesture and spoke fervently into the microphone:

"Be calm! Be happy! Rejoice! Praise be to God! Let us all kneel in prayer. God is calling the holy ones."

The face of a big black man turned ashy gray. "I is getting the hell out of here," he muttered.

He pushed through the crowd and started running. Others followed. Terror spread through the assemblage.

"Stay and pray!" Sweet Prophet warned. "You can't run away from God."

He signaled for the band to begin playing again and raised his big bass voice in song: "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home… All sing," he commanded. "I looked over Jordan and what did I see, coming for to carry me home…"

Hundreds of people broke in wild flight, knocking down women and children and trampling them in the street. But the converts and the religious remained. With their drenched white dresses clinging to oversized bodies, they turned their entranced black faces toward the sky, and began to sing their own individual songs.

"Oh, Jesus, I is coming…"

"I hear you calling me…"

"Call me, Jesus, I is ready…"

A big powerful woman clung to her husband, who was trying desperately to get away. "What's the matter with you? Don't you want to go to heaven?" she was screaming.