"Why,"—fires that God never lighted blazing in her eyes,—"I thought you wanted me to sing! I'll sing. We'll have a hymn. It's Christmas, you know."
She staggered. Liquor, or some subtler poison, was in her veins. Then, catching by the lintel, she broke into that most deep of all adoring cries,—
"I know that my Redeemer liveth."
A strange voice. The men about her were musical critics: they listened intently. Low, uncultured, yet full, with childish grace and sparkle; but now and then a wailing breath of an unutterable pathos.
"Git out wid you," muttered the negro, who had his own religious notions, "pollutin' de name ob de Lord in yer lips!"
Lot laughed.
"Just for a joke, Joe. My Redeemer!"
He drove her down the stairs.
"Do you want to go to jail, Lot?" he said, more kindly. "It's orful cold out to-night."
"No. Let me go."