a grip on my body! I can't make it do what I'm tellin' it to do! Look!"
and he held up one gaunt arm feebly, to let it drop a minute later.
"Look! Marcella--once I could break men with my hands!"

She stared at him, choking. There was nothing she could think to say. In
her mother's weakness her lips had overflowed with tendernesses; for her
father she could only feel a terrified, inarticulate pity. It was not
sympathy. She could not understand enough to sympathize. It was the same
sort of hungry, brooding pity she used to feel for the hungry beasts on
the farm.

"Marcella, do you think if I were to eat a lot of meat I'd be stronger?"
he asked hopefully. "Oh, make me stronger!--give me something," and
suddenly raising himself in bed, he threw his arms about her and, with
his grey head on her shoulder, sobbed desolately. She held him, stroking
his head, aching to find words, but utterly dumb with terror. And when,
later, they got him the food he craved, he could not eat it. Turning
from it in disgust, he prayed:

"There is nothing left, but only Thou, O Lord. No longer art Thou my
shield and buckler, for no longer can I fight. Thou hast laid me very
low, O Lord. Thou hast made me too weak to fight longer; Thou hast
bruised me so that I cannot live save in pain; Thou hast laid me very
low."

There was a long silence. His eyes, faded from the bright blue-grey that
used to flash with fire, were dull and almost colourless as he lay
looking at the faded tapestry of the bed canopy.

"When I pray for courage, Lord, Thou givest pain--Thou givest weakness.