And a Good Heart all the way.
Good Heart in the field,
And the Home-Heart gay.
Ay! Heaven yield
A Good Heart all the way!
A last prayer in the night
That God ’ild the day.
Bide still and die light,
With a Good Heart all the way.”
And after that he sang a grand old German “Alleluja!” letting out his magnificent power until the room echoed, and his audience thrilled and rocked, intoxicated with enthusiasm, mightily growling out the Royal Salute in various keys of their own, as Wiggie swept them away to the Table of the Great Rent-Auditor of All. The voice beat at Lancaster’s brain, dragging at a lost memory. Wigmore was a bit of a puzzle all round. He had no relations that one ever heard of, and no home. He was a professional singer, yet one never seemed to come across his name, in spite of his undeniable gift. Perhaps he was one of the unlucky, to whom no roads open. Certainly there was little of the blatantly successful artist about his slight, tired figure and unassuming manner. Yet it was surely genius that was swinging them all out of their narrow anchorages on that flood of sound. And only Brack, suddenly fearful and cold, felt the irony of that “Alleluja!” on the marshmen’s lips, singing their Easter anthem before ever the agony and the grave were passed.