It became worse and worse in the hall. The stove became red hot, devoured air and belched heat. The respectable women on the front benches looked about for a way to escape, but there was no possibility of getting out. The soldiers on the platform perspired and wilted. They cried and prayed for strength. Suddenly a breath came through the air, a whisper reached their ear. They knew not from where, but they felt a change. God was with them. He fought for them. To the struggle again! The captain stepped forward and lifted the Bible over her head. Stop, stop! We feel that God is working among us. A conversion is near. Help us to pray! God will give us a soul. They fell on their knees in silent prayer. Some in the hall joined in the prayer. All felt an intense expectation. Was it true? Was something great taking place in a fellow-creature’s soul, here, in their midst? Should it be granted to them to see it? Could it be influenced by these women? For the moment the crowd was won. They were now just as eager for a miracle as lately for blasphemy. No one dared to move. All panted from excitement, but nothing happened. “O God, Thou forsakest us! Thou forsakest us, O God!” The beautiful salvation soldier began to sing. She chose the mildest of melodies: “Oh, my beloved, wilt Thou not come soon?” Touching as a praying child, the song entered their souls—like a caress, like a blessing. The crowd was silent, wrapped in those notes. “Mountains and forests long, heaven and earth languish. Man, everything in the world, thirsts that you shall open your soul to the light. Then glory will spread over the earth, then the beasts will rise up from their degradation. “Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?” “It is not true that thou dost linger in lofty halls. In the dark wood, in miserable hovels thou dwellest. And thou wilt not come. My bright heaven does not tempt thee. “Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?” In the hall more and more began to sing the burden. Voice after voice joined in. They did not rightly know what words they used. The tune was enough. All their longing could sing itself free in those tones. They sang, too, down by the door. Hearts were bursting. Wills were subdued. It no longer sounded like a pitiful lament, but strong, imperative, commanding. “Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?” Down by the door, in the worst of the crowd, stood Matts Wik. He looked much intoxicated, but that evening he had not drunk. He stood and thought. “If I might speak, if I might speak!” It was the strangest room he had ever seen, the most wonderful chance. A voice seemed to say to him: “These are the rushes to which you can whisper, the waves which will bear your voice.” The singers started. It was as if they had heard a lion roar in their ears. A mighty, terrible voice spoke dreadful words. It scoffed at God. Why did men serve God? He forsook all those who served him. He had failed his own son. God helped no one.