Alfred gingerly squeezed his granddaughter’s shoulder, a hollow assurance, he knew. “The hour is old and yet this wretched siege still bays its horn.” “When is it going to end, Grandpa?” “Soon I think.” “Really?” Elsa perked up with a bright smile, a contrast to the dark hour. “Do not let joy win your heart yet.” “Why?” “We are losing.” “Should we pray, Grandpa?” “It’s past the time for prayer.” “But, isn’t that what you do?”