The strange noise ahead of him ceased abruptly, and Pollock drew nearer until he saw that the old man knelt and clasped several stalks of corn in his arms. His voice rose tremulously and was hardly audible; he was praying, but the only words that Pollock heard were “the corn, the corn,” constantly repeated.
Then Ezra Dameron’s voice rose with unwonted strength as he repeated in a shrill pipe:
“There shall be an handful of corn in the earth upon the top of the mountains; the fruit thereof shall shake like Lebanon: and they of the city shall flourish like grass of the earth.”
The old man collapsed, pitched forward and lay very still; the stalks of corn released from his arms sprang back to their places with a lingering rustle and whisper.
Pollock drew nearer until he stood by the prostrate figure of the old man, who lay on his face, with his arms flung out.
“Mr. Dameron! Mr. Dameron!”
There was no response, and Pollock pushed aside the corn-stalks and bent down.
“Are you ill? Are you hurt?”
Dameron lay quiet on the ground, which was hard from the August drought. Pollock felt of his hands and found them warm. He brought the limp figure to a sitting posture and repeated again the old man’s name.
“The corn; the corn!” came in a guttural whisper, and Dameron found command of himself and tried to rise.