A tangle of wind-mown reeds tripped him and pitched him to his knees among the high marsh growth.

He did not rise.

The babe in pain cries to his mother; the man in his maturity may outgrow the susceptibility to tears, but he never outwears the want of a stronger spirit upon which to call in his hour of distress.

For Kenkenes it had been a far cry, from his careless days and his empyrean populous with deities, to this utter and unhappy night and one unseen Power.  In that time he had run the gamut of sensations from a laugh to a wail.  Now was his need the sorest of all his life.  The most helpful of all hands must aid him.  His fathers’ gods were in the dust.  What of that unapproachable, unfeeling Omnipotence he had created in their stead?

He fell on his face and prayed.

“O Thou, who art somewhere behind the phantom gods that we have raised!  To whom all prayer ascends by many-charted paths; Thou who canst spread this sooty night across the morning skies and turn to milk the bones of men!  Thou who didst undo my surest plans, who dost mock my boasted power, who hast stripped me till my feeble self is bared to me even in this dreadful night; Thou who wast a fending hand about her; who art her only succor now—­to whom she prays—­and by that sign, Thou Very God!  I bow to Thee.

“My lips are stiff at prayer to such as Thou.  But what need of my tongue’s abashed interpretation of that which I would say, since even the future’s history is open unto Thee?

“I have run my course without craving Thine aid, and lo! here have I ended—­a voice appealing through the night—­no more.

“Now, wilt Thou heed an alien’s plea; wilt Thou know a stranger petitioning before Thy high and holy place?  How shall I win Thine ear?  Charge me with any mission, weight me with a lifetime of penances, strip me of power everlastingly, but grant me leave to supplicate Thy throne.

“Not for myself do I pray, O Hidden God!  Not one jot would I overtax Thy bounty toward me beyond the sufferance of my devotion.  But for her I pray—­for her, out somewhere in this unlifting gloom, her tender maidenhood uncomforted—­with night, with death, with long dishonor threatening her.  Attend her, O Thou august Warden!  Let her not cry out to Thee in vain!  Be Thou as a wall about her, as a light before her, as a firm path beneath her feet.  Do Thou as Thou wilt with me.  Lo!  I offer up myself as ransom for her—­myself—­all I have!  Take her from me, deny mine eyes the sight of her for ever, blot me wholly out of her heart, yield me over to the wrath of mine enemies, and to Thine unknowable vengeance thereafter; but save her, Great God! save her from her enemy!

“Dost Thou hear me, O Holy Mystery?  Is there no sign, no manifestation that Thou dost attend?

“Nay, but I know that Thou hearest me!  By my faith in Thy being I know it, Lord!”

Peace fell on him and he slept.