The prisoners are delighted, and the guards agree to pray with them. “Oh, they’re not such bad chaps after all,” the captain says. At the beginning of Christmas week there is the muffled sound at night of the bands in various parts of the camp practising inside their booths. Oskar comes to the door of the farm-house to say that they intend to play in unison, and want the “Woman of Knockaloe” to choose the carols and hymns for them. Mona chooses what she knows. “Noël,” “The Feast of Stephen,” and “Lead, Kindly Light.” “Splendid!” says Oskar. He is to be the conductor in Compound Three. Snow falls, then comes frost, and on Christmas Eve the ground of the black camp is white and hard, and a moon is shining--a typical Christmas. Mona has had a bustling day, but at nine she is finished and goes upstairs to sit with her father. The old man, who is in bed, has heard something of her activities, and is not too well pleased with them. “What’s coming over thee, girl?” he keeps on repeating. “What’s coming over thee anyway?” “Goodness sakes, why ask me that, dad? It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” Having three hours to wait, she sits by the fire and reads to him--from the Gospels this time: “_And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid._ “_And the angel said unto them, Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people._ “_For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord...._ “_And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying_, “_Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men._” Mona stops. The old man is breathing heavily. He has fallen asleep. At eleven o’clock Mona is in her own room. What a magnificent night! The moon is shining full through the window, making its pattern on the carpet. Outside it is so bright that the entire camp is lit up by it, and there had been no need to switch on the big arc-lamps. The camp lies white in the sparkling snow. For the first time for more than three years it is not distinguishable from the country round about. The white mantle of winter has made camp and country one. It is quiet out there in the night. Not a breath of wind is stirring. A dog is barking in the Fifth Compound, which is half a mile away. There is no other sound except a kind of smothered hum from the inside of the booths, where twenty-five thousand men are waiting for the first hour of Christmas Day--only this and the rhythmical throb of the tide on the distant shore. The old man in the next room is still breathing heavily.