lantern from the niche which stands to this day and is
known as St. Michael's Chair; and trimmed it, and tended it the night
through, taking turns to watch. Niotte, doited with years and sorrow,
believed that it shone to signal her lost child home. Her hands
trembled every night as Graul lit the wick, and she arched her palms
above to shield it from the wind. She was happier than her husband.

Gwennolar's spell defied the lantern and their tottering pains. Boats
were lost, men perished as before. The people tried a new appeal.
It was the women's turn to lay their grief at the King's door. They
crossed the sands by ones and twos---widows, childless mothers, maids
betrothed and bereaved--and spread their dark skirts and sat before
the gateway. Niotte brought them food with her own hands; they took
it without thanks. All the day they sat silent, and Graul felt their
silence to be heavier than curses--nay, that their eyes did indeed
curse as they sat around and watched the lighting of the lantern, and
Niotte, nodding innocently at her arched hands, told them, "See, I
pray; cannot you pray too?"

But the King's prayer was spoken in the morning, when the flame and
the stars grew pale together and the smoke of the extinguished lamp
sickened his soul in the clean air. His gods were gone with the oaks
under which he had worshipped; but he stood on a rock apart from the
women and, lifting both hands, cried aloud: "If there be any gods
above the tree-tops, or any in the far seas whither the old fame
of King Graul has reached; if ever I did kindness to a stranger or
wayfarer, and he, returning to his own altars, remembered to speak of
Graul of Lyonnesse: may I, who ever sought to give help, receive help
now! From my youth I have believed that around me, beyond sight as
surely as within it, stretched goodness answering the goodness in my
own heart; yea, though I should never travel and find it, I trusted
it was there. O trust, betray me not! O kindness, how far soever
dwelling, speak comfort and help! For I am afflicted because of my
people."

Seven mornings he prayed thus on his rock: and on the seventh,
his prayer ended, he stood watching while the sunrays, like dogs
shepherding a flock, searched in the mists westward and gathered up
the tale of boats one by one. While he counted them, the shoreward
breeze twanged once like a harp, and he heard a fresh young voice
singing from the base of the cliff at his feet--

"_There li