"It would not be well," he replied, "to tamper with the works of the Almighty. Pray rather for this miracle, that your father's heart be turned toward you and toward the lady, your mother."
So during much of the night she had asked this boon steadfastly. But clearly she had not been heard.
"Back to your bed!" said her father, and turned his face away.
So she went as far as the leather curtain which hung in the doorway and there she turned.
"Why do they sing?" she had asked the Bishop, of the blacksmith and the others, and he had replied into his beard, "To soften the hard of heart."
So she turned in the doorway and sang in her reedy little voice, much thinned by the cold, sang to soften her young father's heart.
"The Light of Light Divine,
True Brightness undefined.
He bears for us the shame of sin,
A holy, spotless Child."
But the song failed. Perhaps it was the wrong hour, or perhaps it was because she had not slept in the manger and brought forth the gift of voice.
"Blood of the martyrs!" shouted her father, and raised himself on his elbow. "Are you mad? Get back to your bed. I shall have a word with someone for this."
Whether it had softened him or not it had stirred him, so she made her plea.