seemingly in response, but as
if moved to sudden passion and crying out with one accord. This helped
him a little, otherwise he was without any assistance.

A great Voice. The man sometimes leaned over the Roll of the Law,
sometimes he stood upright, always his great Voice went up and down and
rolled along the roof and echoed along the benches of the women's
gallery. Now the Voice sounded a note of rejoicing; now, but less often,
a note of sadness; now it was a sharp and sudden cry of triumph. Then
the people shouted with him--it was as if they clashed sword on shield
and yelled for victory; now it was a note of defiance, as when men go
forth to fight an enemy; now it sank to a murmur, as of one who consoles
and soothes and promises things to come; now it was a note of rapture,
as if the Promised Land was already recovered.

Was all that in the Voice? Did the congregation, all sitting wrapped in
their white robes, feel these emotions as the Voice thundered and
rolled? I know not. Such was the effect produced upon one who heard this
Voice for the first time. At first it seemed loud, even barbaric; there
was lacking something which the listener and stranger had learned to
associate with worship. What was it? Reverence? But she presently found
reverence In plenty, only of a kind that differed from that of Christian
worship. Then the listener made another discovery. In this ancient
service she missed the note of humiliation. There was no Litany at a
Faldstool. There was no kneeling in abasement; there was no appearance
of penitence, sorrow, or the confession of sins. The Voice was as the
Voice of a Captain exhorting his soldiers to fight. The service was
warlike, the service of a people whose trust in their God is so great
that they do not need to call perpetually upon Him for the help and
forgiveness of which they are assured. Yes, yes--she thought--this is
the service of a race of warriors; they are fighting men: the Lord is
their God; He is leading them to battle: as for little sins, and
backslidings, and penitences, they belong to the Day of Atonement--which
comes once a year. For all the other days in the year, battle and
victory occupy all the mind. The service of a great fighting people; a
service full of joy, full of faith, full of assurance, full of hope and
confidence--such assurance as few Christians can understand, and of
faith to which few Christians can attain. Perhaps Francesca was wrong;
but these were her