midday
He had a work to do , and by sunset must carry good tidings to his little world . For a time his heart was brave as the dry wind scorched the tear upon his cheek . `` Surely , '' he thought , weaving his thoughts into a fine marching rhythm , `` the great God will help me now , will help me now . '' At midday , after he had tried , with that strange Greek pertinacity that understands no refusals , all the hotels and tourist agencies he had called at the day before , he became weary and disconsolate . The march had become a dirge ; no longer it suggested happiness to be , but failure . An Englishman threw him a piastre , and he turned into a cafe . Calling for a glass of wine , he flung himself down on the wooden bench and tried to think .