"Sincerely I wish I might aid you with one," the man admitted, "but I
fear, old fellow, any prayer coming from my lips would never ascend
very far. However, I might try the comfort of a hymn, and you will
remember this one, which, no doubt, you have helped to sing back in
God's country."
There was a moment's hushed pause, during which a rifle cracked sharply
out in the ravine; then the reckless fellow, his head partially
supported against the protecting bowlder, lifted up a full, rich
barytone in rendition of that hymn of Christian faith--
"Nearer, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee!
E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me,
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee."
Glazed and wearied eyes glanced cautiously toward the singer around the
edges of protecting rocks; fingers loosened their grasp upon the rifle
barrels; smoke-begrimed cheeks became moist; while lips, a moment
before profaned by oaths, grew silent and trembling. Out in front a
revengeful brave sent his bullet swirling just above the singer's head,
the sharp fragments of rock dislodged falling in a shower upon his
upturned face; but the fearless rascal sang serenely on to the end,
without a quaver.
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