The man Saxon sprawls across one of the oaken chairs, half kneeling, half reclining, with his long legs trailing out behind, and his face buried in his hands.

All round in the flickering light of the hanging lamp I see the objects which have been so familiar to me from childhood--the settle by the fireplace, the high-back stiff-elbowed chairs, the stuffed fox above the door, the picture of Christian viewing the Promised Land from the summit of the Delectable Mountains--all small trifles in themselves, but making up among them the marvellous thing we call home, the all-powerful lodestone which draws the wanderer's heart from the farther end of the earth.
Should I ever see it again save in my dreams--I, who was leaving this sheltered cove to plunge into the heart of the storm?
The prayer finished, we all rose with the exception of Saxon, who remained with his face buried in his hands for a minute or so before starting to his feet.

I shrewdly suspect that he had been fast asleep, though he explained that he had paused to offer up an additional supplication.

My father placed his hands upon my head and invoked the blessing of Heaven upon me.

He then drew my companion aside, and I heard the jingling of coin, from which I judge that he was giving him something wherewith to start upon his travels.