Around the open glade with its three worshippers breathed the silent night, above it shone the stars, the mysterious stars, but nearer than night, and nearer than the stars, seemed God, listening and aware.
Through all his after years Kalman would look back to that night as the night on which God first became to him something other than a name.

And to French that evening song and prayer were an echo from those dim and sacred shrines of memory where dwelt his holiest and tenderest thoughts.
Next day, Black Joe, tired of freedom, wandered home, to the great joy of the household..