But one day McFarquhar ventured a
step in advance.
"Michael," he said timidly, "you will need to be prayin' for yourself."
"Shure an' don't I inthrate the Blessed Virgin to be doin' that same for
me?"
McFarquhar had learned to be very patient with his "Romish errors," so
he only replied:
"Ay, but you must take words upon your own lips," he said, earnestly.
"An' how can I, then, for niver a word do I know?"
Then McFarquhar fell into great distress and looked at me imploringly. I
rose and went into the next room, closing the door behind me. Then,
though I tried to make a noise with the chairs, there rose the sound of
McFarquhar's voice; but not with the cadence of the Gaelic prayer. He
had no gift in the English language, he said; but evidently Ould Michael
thought otherwise, for he cared no more for Gaelic prayers.
By degrees McFarquhar began to hope that Ould Michael would come to the
light, but there was a terrible lack in the old soldier of "conviction
of sin." One day, however, in his reading he came to the words, "the
Captain of our Salvation.
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