They settled themselves in the conventional posture, the women retiring into their bonnets, the men hanging their heads, and the prayer began.
It was a strange appeal—one which only one man among them could grasp the meaning of, though all regarded its outpouring words with wonder and admiration. It was an outcry full of passion, dread, and anguish which was like despair. It was a prayer for mercy—mercy for those who suffered, for the innocent who might suffer—for loving hearts too tender to bear the bitter blows of life.
“The loving hearts, O God!” he cried, “the loving hearts who wait—who——”
More than one woman looked up from under her bonnet; his body began to tremble—he staggered and fell into a chair, hiding his face, shaking from head to foot in an agony of weeping. Tom made his way to him and bent over him.
“Come with me,” he said, his great voice broken. “Come with me into the air, it will quiet you, and we can wait until—until they come.”
He put his arm under his and supported him out of the house.
Two or three women began to rock themselves to and fro and weep aloud hysterically. It was only the stronger ones who could control themselves. He was standing at Tom’s side then; when they came out a short time afterwards, walking slowly and carrying the light burden, which they lowered into its resting-place beneath the pines.
He was quite calm again, and made no sound or movement until all was over. Then he spoke to Tom.
“Tell them,” he said, “that I thank them. I can do no more.”
He walked back to the desolate house, and in a little while the people went their ways, each of them looking back a little wistfully at the cabin as he or she rode out of sight.