“He will, my dear,” said Mr. Ellyat gently, “But what will be His answer?” He took her hand, Smoothing it for a moment. Then she sighed And turned back to the interminable scarf. Jack Ellyat’s pulse beat faster. Women praying, Praying at night, in every house in the North, Praying for old John Brown until their knees Ached with stiff cold. Innumerable prayers Inexorably rising, till the dark Vault of the midnight was so thronged and packed The wild geese could not arrow through the storm Of terrible, ascendant, women’s prayers.⁠ ⁠…

The clock struck nine, and Phaëton still stood Frozenly urging on his frozen horses, But, for a moment, to Jack Ellyat’s eyes, The congealed hoofs had seemed to paw the air And the bronze car roll forward.