There was a lull in the storm, so that the root-fibre was not torn
instantly away from the hand; but in the hermit's prayers there was
no pause: "May the Lord come soon to destroy this world of
corruption, so that man may not have time to heap more sin upon
himself! May he save the unborn from life! For the living there is
no salvation."

Then the storm began again, and the little root-fibre fluttered
away out of the hermit's big gnarled hand. But the birds came again
and tried to wedge the foundation of the new home in between the
fingers. Suddenly a shapeless and dirty thumb laid itself on the
straws and held them fast, and four fingers arched themselves so
that there was a quiet niche to build in. The hermit continued his
prayers.

"Oh Lord, where are the clouds of fire which laid Sodom waste? When
wilt Thou let loose the floods which lifted the ark to Ararat's
top? Are not the cups of Thy patience emptied and the vials of Thy
grace exhausted? Oh Lord, when wilt Thou rend the heavens and come?"

And feverish visions of the Day of Doom appeared to Hatto the
hermit. The ground trembled, the heavens glowed. Across the flaming
sky he saw black clouds of flying birds, a horde of panic-stricken
beasts rushed, roaring and bellowing, past him. But while his soul
was occupied with these fiery visions, his eyes began to follow the
flight of the little birds, as they flashed to and fro and with a
cheery peep of satisfaction wove a new straw into the nest.

The old man had no thought of moving. He had made a vow to pray