The woman who had begun it was swept to her feet; she stood
with her tinsel gayety of apparel making her tragic ebony face
infinitely grotesque and tormented while her tone rose in a clear
emotional soprano:
_"Children of Israel, unhappy slaves,
Good tidings, good tidings,
For that chariot's coming,
God's chariot's coming, ... coming,
........... chariot out of Egypt."_
The magic of her feeling swept like a flame over the room; shrill
mirth, mocking calls, curses were bound in a louder and louder volume
of hope and praise. The negroes were on their feet, swaying in the
hysterical contagion of melody, the unutterable longing of their alien
isolation.
"God's chariot's coming." The song filled the roof, hung with bright
strips of paper, it boomed through the windows and doors. Sobbing cries
cut through it, profound invocations, beautiful shadowy voices chimed
above the weight of sound.
It beat like a hammer on Lemuel Doret's brain and heart. Suddenly he
couldn't breathe, and he rose with a gasp, facing the miracle that had
overtaken the place he called bad. God's chariot--was there! He heard
God's very tone directed at him. Borne upward on the flood of
exaltation he seemed to leave the earth far, far away. Something hard,
frozen, in him burst, and tears ran over his face; he was torn by fear
and terrible joy. His Lord....
He fell forward on his knees, an arm overturning the bottle of beer;
and, his sleeve dabbled in it, he pressed his head against the cold
edge of the table, praying wordlessly for faith, incoherently ravished
by the marvel of salvation, the knowledge of God here, everywhere.
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