On sang Diadyomene, not knowing that a power stronger than her magic, stronger than his will, kept him from her feet. On she sang, herself possessed, uttering not with her own will more than magic. What alien element underlay the spell she would deliver? what lurking revelation to be dreaded, to be desired, hid beneath? Her voice was caught back again, and yet again, to repeat the finish:
'As a singer the breath to be rendered song,
As a child the life that will last so long—
As a child——'
Then bell notes fell in a chime. She lifted her head; they rang, she hearkened, motionless, wordless.
It was midnight, and joy for the birth of Christ thrilled the world. No spell could hold. Christian must resume the throes of death.
The cold and the tide were merciful to shorten. His limbs were stone-cold and dead already, past motion, past pain. Against his side the foremost lap of the tide told. It licked and bit along his body, flanks, breast, throat, touched his cheek. Astray against his face he felt the thread of rowan. It kissed along cheek, along brow, and swung wide and away.
'Christ, Christ, ah! Christ.'
He turned his head and drank of the brine, and drank and drank to slake the rage of thirst. The drawing of breath made hindrance: not for long. The last draughts he took were somewhat sharp and painful, but they quenched his thirst. He was entirely satisfied.
'We beseech, we beseech, we beseech:
Lord God for my unbaptized!
Dear Christ for Christian's Diadyomene!
Blessed Trinity and all Saints for a nameless soul in sore need!'