He continued to sit thus, as if listening.

It was a strange, an astounding thought to him that he might pray.
Though the earth of adamant were unyielding, the heaven of brass might
give way!

He dragged himself to his feet.

He believed in God--vaguely. That is, it had always been a matter of
good form with him to go to church and to call for the offices of
religion on occasions of death or marriage. He had assisted at the
saying of prayers and assented to their contents. He had even joined in
them himself, since a liturgical service was a principle in the church
to which he "belonged." All this, however, had seemed remote from his
personal affairs, his life-and-death struggles--till now. Now, all at
once, queerly, it offered him something--he knew not what. It might be
nothing better than any of the straws he had been clutching at. It might
be no more than the effort he had just been making to compel two to
balance ten.

He stood in the middle of the room under the cluster of electric lights
and tried to recollect what he knew, what he had heard, of this Power
that could still act when human strength had reached its limitations.
It was nothing very definite. It consisted chiefly of great phrases,
imperfectly understood: "Father Almighty," "Saviour of the World,"
"Divine Compassion" and such like. He did not reason about them, or try
to formulate what he actually believed. It was instinctively, almost
unconsciously, that he began to speak; it was brokenly and with a kind
of inward, spiritual hoarseness. He scarcely knew what he was doing when