He’d reminded them of their god Begochiddi and of Nilhchii, whom the Indians believe to have made all things—the same one white men call God—and showed them a book called the Bible which told the story of God and of Jesus His Son who came to save men from their sin. Not one of the Indians had ever heard the name of Jesus before or knew anything about the great story of salvation.

Hazel wondered why it made a difference whether these poor people knew all this or not; yet she saw in this man’s face that it did matter, infinitely. To him it mattered more than anything else. A passing wish that she were an Indian and could hold his interest that way flashed through her mind. But he was still speaking of his work, and his rapt look filled her with awe. She was overwhelmed with the depth of the man before her. Sitting there in the firelight, with its ruddy glow on his face, his hat off and the moon laying a silver crown upon his head, he seemed almost like an angel to her. She’d never been so filled with the joy of beholding another soul. She had no room for thoughts of anything else.

Then suddenly he remembered it was late.

“I’ve kept you awake far too long,” he said gently. “We should get on our way as soon as it’s light, and I’ve made you listen to me when you should have been sleeping. But I always like to have a word with my Father before retiring. Shall we worship together?”

Hazel, overcome with wonder and embarrassment, assented and lay still in her sheltered spot. She watched him draw a small leather book from his breast pocket and open it to the place marked by a thin satin cord. Then stirring up the fire to brightness he began to read, and the majestic words of the ninety-first psalm sounded to her unaccustomed ears like a charming page.

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”

“He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.”

The words were uttered with a ringing tone of trust. The listener knew little of birds and their ways, but the phrasing reminded her of how she was sheltered from the storm a little while before, and her heart thrilled anew with the thought of it.

“Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror by night!”

Ah! Terror by night! She knew what that meant. That awful night of darkness, steep climbing, howling beasts, and black oblivion! She shuddered involuntarily. Not afraid! What confidence the voice had as it rang on, and all at once she knew this night was free from terror for her because of the man whose confidence was in the Unseen.

“He shall give his angels charge over thee.”

Looking at him, she almost expected to see flitting wings in the moonlit background. How strong and true the face! How tender the lines about the mouth! What a glow of inner quietness and power in the eyes as he raised them now and again to her face across the firelight! What a thing it would be to have a friend like that! Her eyes glowed softly at the thought, and once again the contrast between this man and the one from whom she had fled in horror flashed across her mind.

With the reading ended, he replaced the marker and dropped on one knee on the desert with his face lifted to the sky. The moon’s radiance flooded over him as he spoke to God in the same way a man speaks with his friend, face-to-face.

Hazel watched him still, with awe growing inside her. The sense of an unseen Presence close at hand was so strong that once she lifted half-frightened eyes to the wide clear sky. The light on the missionary’s face seemed like glory from another world.

She felt herself enfolded and carried into the presence of the infinite by his words, and he didn’t forget to commend her loved ones to the Almighty’s care. A sense of peace and security, unknown to her before, came upon her as she listened to the simple, earnest words.

After the brief prayer he turned to her with a smile and some reassuring words about the night. Her dressing room was behind those trees, and she didn’t need to be afraid; he wouldn’t be far away. He’d keep the fire bright all night, so she wouldn’t be annoyed by coyotes howling too close, and then he went to gather more wood. She heard him singing, softly at first, then with increasing volume as he got farther away, his rich tenor ringing clear into the night in an old hymn. The words floated back distinctly to her listening ears:

“My God, is any hour so sweet

From flush of dawn to evening star,

As that which calls me to Thy feet,

The hour of prayer?

Then is my strength by Thee renewed;

Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;

Then dost Thou cheer my solitude

With hopes of heaven.

No words can tell what sweet relief

There for my every want I find;

What strength for warfare, balm for grief,

What peace of mind!”

She lay down for the night, marveling still over the man. He was singing those words as if he meant them. She knew he possessed something that made him different from other men. What was it, and how did she find him out here alone in the desert?

The great stars burned sharply in the heavens over her, the moon’s white radiance lay all about her, and the firelight played at her feet. Far away she could hear coyotes howling, but she wasn’t afraid.

She could see the man’s broad shoulders as he bent over on the other side of the fire to throw on more wood.