apparently
led into this second apartment. The voice never ceased in its monotonous
appeal, and I ventured to lift the latch, and take cautious glance
through the slight opening.

It was a blacksmith shop of fair size, fully equipped with all the tools
of the trade, the walls blackened by smoke, the earthen floor littered
with _debris_, a leathern apron hanging over the anvil. A curtain drawn
aside formed a smaller, separate apartment, with puncheon floor, lighted
by a small window through which a gleam of sun fell. I caught therein
glimpse of a bunk full of disarranged blankets, a straight-back chair,
and a small table, with a few books lying upon it. Yet all this was but
the result of a glance, as my whole attention concentrated upon a
kneeling figure just beneath the loop of the curtain. The man was facing
me, but with eyes closed, and uplifted, as his lips poured forth the
fervent words of prayer. I was not a religious man in those days, yet the
faith of my mother was not forgotten, and there was something of
sincerity about that solitary kneeling figure I could not but respect.
The words uttered, the deep resonant voice, and above all, the expression
of that upturned face, held me silent, motionless. He was a man of short,
sturdy limb, but great bulk, massive chest, and immense shoulders
evidencing remarkable strength. His face was rugged, the jaws square, the
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 com