wakes not. He is under a charm--nought of evil can affect him, for
he has prayed. Encompassed with dangers, the tramp always prays "Our
Father," and that he may be kept for the one who loves him. Prayers
are strong out of doors at night, for they are made at heaven's gate
in the presence of the stars.

An hour before dawn a new awakening. Oh dear, night not gone! The
tramp is vexed. The moon has finished her hunting, and is going out
of the night with her dark huntsmen; she passes through the gate.
Peerless hunter!

The sky is full of light, a sort of dull, paper-lantern light. In an
hour it will be morning. The side on which I have been lying is sore.
I turn over and reflect joyfully that when next I wake it will be day.
Moths are flitting in the dawn twilight: yes, in an hour it will be
day.

Ah, ha, ha! The sleeper yawns and looks up. There is blue in the
clouds, pale blue like that of a baby's eyes. A cart lumbers along the
road, the first cart of the morning. I reflect that if I remain where
I am people may come and look at me. Ten minutes hesitation, and then
suddenly I make up my mind and rise.

I feel a miserable creature, a despicable sort of person, one who has
lately been beaten, a beggar who has just been refused alms. In the
half-light of dawn it seems I scarcely have a right to exist. Or I
feel a sort of self-pity. How often have I said as I gathered up my
stiff limbs and damp belongings in the mist of the morning, "And the
poor old tramp lifts himself and takes to the road once more, trudge,
trudge, trudge--a weary life!"