opped upon the page;
and he read aloud softly, as if to himself.

"This is life eternal, that they might know Thee, the one true God, and
Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent. I have glorified Thee on the earth; I
have finished the work which Thou gavest me to do."

Again there was silence, for it seemed as if he was going to make a
sermon, but he looked down at the book a moment or two. Then he closed
it gently.

"Here is learning enough for me," he said, "to my life's end."

There was a movement among the silent figures at the back of the
scaffold; and the Lieutenant stepped forward once more. The bishop
turned to meet him and nodded; handing him the book; and then with the
crucifix still in his hands, and with the officers help, sank on to his
knees.

* * * * *

It seemed to Chris as if he waited an eternity; but he could not take
his eyes off him. Round about was the breathing mass of the crowd,
overhead the clear summer sky; up from the river came the sounds of
cries and the pulse of oars, and from the Tower now and again the call
of a horn and the stroke of a bell; but all this was external, and
seemed to have no effect upon the intense silence of the heart that
radiated from the scaffold, and in which the monk felt himself
enveloped. The space between himself and the bishop seemed annihilated;
and Chris found himself in company with a thousand others close beside
the man's soul that was to leave the world so soon. He could not pray;
but he had the sensation of gripping that imploring spirit, pulsating
with it, furthering with his own strained will that stream of effort
that he knew was going forth.

Meanwhile his eyes stared at him; and saw without seeing how the old man
now leaned back with closed eyes and moving lips; now he bent forward,
and looked at the crucified figure that he held between his hands, now
lifted it and lingeringly kissed the pierced feet. Behind stood the
stiff line of officers, and in front below the rail rose the glitter of
the halberds.

The minutes went by and there was no change. The world seemed to have
grown rigid with expectancy; it was as if time stood still. There fell
upon the monk's soul, not suddenly but imperceptibly, something of that
sense of the unseen that he had experienced at Tyburn. For a certain
space all sorrow and terror left him; he knew tangibly now that to which
at other times his mere faith assented; he knew that the world of s