Hands started. His thoughts came back to the house in which he sat. The girl's voice touched him immeasurably. He heard it clearly in a lull of the storm. Then another tremendous gust of wind drowned it.
Two great tears rolled down his cheeks.
It was midnight, and all the people in the house were long since asleep, when Hands picked up the last of his newspapers.
It was Saturday's edition of the London Daily Mercury, the powerful rival of the Wire. A woman who had been to Penzance market had brought it home for him, otherwise he would have had to wait for it until the Monday morning.
He gazed wearily round the homely room.
Weariness, that was what lay heavy over mind and body — an utter weariness.
The firelight played upon the crude pictures, the simple ornaments, the ship worked in worsted when the coast-guard was a boy in the Navy, the shells from a Pacific island, a model gun under a glass shade. But his thoughts were not prisoned by these humble walls and the humble room in which he sat. He heard the groaning of the peoples of the world, the tramp of armies, the bitter cry of souls from whom hope had been plucked for ever.
He remembered the fair morning in Jerusalem when, with the earliest light of dawn, he had gone to work with his Arab boys before the heat of the day.
From the Mosque of Omar he had heard the sonorous chant of the muezzin.
"The night has gone with the darkness, and the day approaches with light and brightness!
"Praise God for securing His favour and kindness!
