chin pronounced, the brow broad, rather than high, with nose like the
beak of a hawk. His thick hair, iron-gray, was a bushy mat. His only
clothing consisted of leathern breeches, well worn but clean, and a rough
shirt, open at the throat, and sleeveless. This revealed a brawny chest,
and arms knotted with muscle.

But it was the man's voice, deep, resonant, vibrant with feeling, which
fascinated me, while the words spoken seemed to yield me a new conception
of prayer, so simple were they, so clearly a true utterance of the heart.
Believing himself alone with his Maker, there was a depth of sincerity in
the tone which hushed all shallow criticism. Rare Christian faith,
unreserved surrender, absolute confidence spoke through every syllable,
and I stood there, almost breathless, listening, feeling that this was
holy ground. What was this man, this praying blacksmith? A patriot
surely, from his words of petition; one who had suffered much, but was
willing to suffer more. The strength chiselled in that upturned face,
those deeply marked features, revealed no common mental equipment. Here
was a real man, with convictions, one who would die for an ideal; without
doubt a radical, ready to go to any extreme where conscience blazed the
way.

I cannot attempt to reproduce from memory those words of petition which
came slowly from his lips, as though the man was himself awed by the
presence of the Infinite. There was no stumbling, no hesitancy, but the
solemnly devout language of the Bible seemed to flow naturally forth, as
though the man's mind was steeped with the imagery of that Oriental past,
the present struggle in which he was engaged but a reflection of old
Jewish wars in which Jehovah led the chosen hosts to victory. As he
finally paused, his head bowed low, I stepped forward into the light,
confident of welcome, utterly forgetful of the uniform I wore. At the