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 lived a king in Argos,—­
A merchantman in Tyre
Would sell the King his cargoes,
But took his heart’s desire: 
Sing Io, Io, Io!—­”

Graul looked toward his wife.  “That will be the boy Laian,” said Motte; “he sits on the rock below and sings at his fishing.”

“The song is a strange one,” said Graul; “and never had Laian voice like that.”

The singer mounted the cliff—­

“The father of that merry may
A thousand towns he made to pay,
And lapp’d the world in fire!”

He stood before them—­a handsome, smiling youth, with a crust of brine on his blue sea-cloak, and the light of the morning in his hair.  “Salutation, O Graul!” said he, and looked so cordial and well-willing that the King turned to him from the dead lamp and the hooded women as one turns to daylight from an evil dream.

“Salutation, O Stranger!” he answered.  “You come to a poor man, but are welcome—­you and your shipmates.”