The conviction of this other man that he knew to whom he was speaking caught hold of Alec Trenholme's mind with mastering force; he had no conviction of his own; he was not at all sure, as men count certainty, whether there was, or was not, any ear but his own listening to the other's words; but he did not notice his own belief or unbelief in the matter, any more than he noticed the air between him and the stars.

The colourlessness of his own mind took on for the time the colour of the other's.
And the burden of the prayer was this: Our Father, thy kingdom come.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus.
The hardihood of the prayer was astonishing; all tender arguments of love were used, all reasonable arguments as of friend with friend and man with man, and its lengthened pathos was such that Trenholme felt his heart torn for pity within him.
"Look here!" he said at last.

(He had been listening he knew not how long, but the planets in the sky above had moved westward.

He took hold of the old man.) "Look here! He won't come so that you can see Him; but He's here just the same, you know." The only result was that the old man ceased speaking aloud, and continued as if in silent prayer.
It seemed irreverent to interrupt him.

Trenholme stood again irresolute, but he knew that for himself at least it was madness to stand longer without exercise in the keen night.
"Come, Lord Jesus!" cried the old man again in loud anguish.