he obscurity
were gathered little groups of townsmen. The nave had always been open
for their devotions in happier days, and at the altars of its various
chapels they were accustomed to seek the means of grace. That night
they met for the last time--some few as curious spectators, but most in
bitterness of heart and profound sorrow, that the great church with its
splendid services was lost to them for ever. They clustered between the
pillars of the arcades; and, the doors that separated the nave from the
choir being open, they could look through the stone screen, and see the
serges twinking far away on the high altar.

Among all the sad hearts in the abbey church, there was none sadder than
that of Richard Vinnicomb, merchant and wool-stapler. He was the
abbot's elder brother, and to all the bitterness naturally incident to
the occasion was added in his case the grief that his brother was a
prisoner in London, and would certainly be tried for his life.

He stood in the deep shadow of the pier that supported the north-west
corner of the tower, weighed down with sorrow for the abbot and for the
fall of the abbey, and uncertain whether his brother's condemnation
would not involve his own ruin. It was December 6, Saint Nicholas' Day,
the day of the abbot's patron saint. He was near enough to the choir to
hear the collect being read on the other side of the screen:

"_Deus qui beatum Nicolaum pontificem innumeris decorasti miraculis:
tribue quaesumus ut ejus mentis, et precibus, a gehennae incendiis
liberemur, per Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum. Amen_."

"Amen," he said in the shadow of his pillar. "Blessed Nicholas, save
me; blessed Nicholas, save us all; blessed Nicholas, save my brother,
and, if he must lose this temporal life, pray to our Lord Christ that He
will shortly accomplish the number of His elect, and reunite us in His
eternal Paradise."

He clenched his hands in his distress, and, as a flicker from the
brazier fell upon him, those standing near saw the tears run down his
cheeks.

"_Nicholas qui omnem terram doctrina replevisti, intercede pro peccatis
nostris_," said the officiant; and the monks gave the antiphon:

"_Iste est qui contempsit vitam mundi et pervenit ad coelestia regna_."

One by one a server put out the altar-lights, and as the last was
extinguished the monks rose in their places, and walked out in
procession, while the organ played a dirge as sad as the wind in a
ruined window.