He held his hand over his eyes for a moment in secret prayer, and then, opening the huge leather-bound book on the desk, began to read. His rich, clear voice gave emphasis to every word in that glorious fourth chapter of Second Corinthians: "Therefore, seeing we have this ministry, as we have received mercy, we faint not; but have renounced the hidden things of dishonesty, not walking in craftiness, nor handling the word of God deceitfully; but by manifestation of the truth, commending ourselves to every man’s conscience in the sight of God," etc. "We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed." Here the reader’s tones became more firmly joyful, his form grew more erect, his whole countenance beamed. He read on through that chapter, and nine verses of the following one; then turning back to the eighth of Romans, he read on rapidly to the thirty-first verse, when his voice rose until it rang again, and the stone walls echoed back his exultant words: "If God be for us, who can be against us? He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him also freely give us all things? ... Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?" Here his voice faltered, and his clasped hands were raised, while the tears, rolling from his up-turned eyes, fell upon his white beard: "For thy sake, we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter." All the sorrow had left his tones now, his tall frame was raised to its utmost height, his clenched right hand was stretched toward heaven, the other grasped his robe, and he almost shouted: "Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us." His audience, hardly knowing what they did, rose to their feet, and repeated with him the closing verses. When the last words were spoken, silence reigned in the room, only broken by the low sobs of some of the assembly. Then a feeble, aged voice, near the centre of the room, said: "Let us pray." Every knee was bent while the old man prayed in simple, touching words for their persecutors, Arundel the archbishop, the king, and others, and then for many near and dear ones who were even then in the persecutors’ power. But he prayed more that they might be enabled to hold fast the faith without wavering, than that they might be delivered from bodily pain. As he mentioned each by name, the deep though suppressed groan from some weeping member of the assembly told where a loving heart was longing for the safety of some dear one. But when they arose from their knees, all were calm and composed, grave but not sad, for the words of comfort had entered into many hearts.