She was herself the last to kneel, kneeling
forward but doubting if she ought not to face the other way, hardly
knowing whether she was a Catholic or a Methodist; and she was much the
last to close her eyes. But the various postures were taken without a
jar and the modest Vicksburger prayed. His words were neither impromptu
nor printed, but, as every one quickly perceived and Ramsey had known
beforehand, were memorized and were fresh from the pen of the actor.
Diffidence warped the first phrase or two, but soon each word came
clear, warm from the heart, and reaching all hearts, however borne back
by the rapturous yells with which the exhorter broke in at every pause.
"And though to our own sight," pleaded the supplicant, "we are but atoms
in thy boundless creation, we yet believe that prayer offered thee in
love, humility, and trust cannot offend. Wherefore in this extremity of
grief and disaster we implore thee for deliverance."
Close at Ramsey's back, in the only seat whose occupant her diligent eye
had failed to light on, a kneeler heaved a sigh so piteous that it
startled her like an alarum.
But the prayer went on: "Drive from us, O Lord, this pestilence. Allow
it no more toll of life or agony. Have mercy on us all, both the sick
and the sound."
"Have mercy," moaned the suffering voice behind, and Ramsey, suffering
with it, wished she had been Methodist enough to kneel with her face
that way.
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