; and, as he reflected on this, he remembered that he, too, was
guilty of the same crime;... and he wondered whether he, too, would die
as manfully, if the need for it ever came.

* * * * *

Then, in an instant, he was called back, by the sudden crash of horns
and drums playing all together. He saw again the ranks of heads before
him: the great arched windows of the hall on the other side of the
court, the grim dominating keep, and the merciless February morning sky
over all.

It was impossible to tell what was going on.

On all sides of him men jostled and murmured aloud. One said, "She is
coming down"; another, "It is all over"; another, "They have awakened
her." "What is it? what is it?" whispered Robin to the air, watching
waves of movement pass over the serried heads before him. The lights
were still burning here and there in the windows, and the tall panes of
the hall were all aglow, as if a great fire burned within. Overhead the
sky had turned to daylight at last, but they were grey clouds that
filled the heavens so far as he could see. Meanwhile, the horns brayed
in unison, a rough melody like the notes of bugles, and the drums beat
out the time.

Again there was a long pause--in which the lapse of time was
incalculable. Time had no meaning here: men waited from incident to
incident only--the moving of a line of steel caps, a pause in the music,
a head thrust out from a closed window and drawn back again.... Again
the music broke out, and this time it was an air that they played--a
lilting melancholy melody, that the priest recognised, yet could not
identify. Men laughed subduedly near him; he saw a face wrinkled with
bitter mirth turned back, and he heard what was said. It was "Jumping
Joan" that was being played--the march consecrated to the burning of
witches. He had heard it long ago, as a boy....

Then the rumour ran through the crowd, and spent itself at last in the
corner where the priest stood trembling with wrath and pity.

"She is in the hall."

It was impossible to know whether this were true, or whether she had not
been there half an hour already. The horror was that all might be over,
or not yet begun, or in the very act of doing. He had thought that there
would be some pause or warning--that a signal would be given, perhaps,
that all might bare their heads or pray, at this violent passing of a
Queen. But there was none. The heads surged and quieted; murmurs b