here that men had
worshipped Jesus, that blood-stained Man of Sorrow, who had borne, even
on His own confession, not peace but a sword. Yet they had knelt, those
blind and hopeless Christians.... Ah! the pathos of it all, the
despairing acceptance of any creed that would account for sorrow, the
wild worship of any God who had claimed to bear it!

And again came the sound, striking across her peace, though as yet she
did not understand why.

It was nearer now; and she turned in astonishment to look down the dusky
nave.

It was from without that the sound had come, that strange murmur, that
rose and fell again as she listened.

She stood up, her heart quickening a little--only once before had she
heard such a sound, once before, in a square, where men raged about a
point beneath a platform....

She stepped swiftly out of her seat, passed down the aisle, drew back
the curtains beneath the west window, lifted the latch and stepped out.

* * * * *

The street, from where she looked over the railings that barred the
entrance to the church, seemed unusually empty and dark. To right and
left stretched the houses, overhead the darkening sky was flushed with
rose; but it seemed as if the public lights had been forgotten. There
was not a living being to be seen.

She had put her hand on the latch of the gate, to open it and go out,
when a sudden patter of footsteps made her hesitate; and the next
instant a child appeared panting, breathless and terrified, running with
her hands before her.

"They're coming, they're coming," sobbed the child, seeing the face
looking at her. Then she clung to the bars, staring over her shoulder.

Mabel lifted the latch in an instant; the child sprang in, ran to the
door and beat against it, then turning, seized her dress and cowered
against her. Mabel shut the gate.

"There, there," she said. "Who is it? Who are coming?"

But the child hid her face, drawing at the kindly skirts; and the next
moment came the roar of voices and the trampling of footsteps.

* * * * *

It was not more than a few seconds before the heralds of that grim
procession came past. First came a flying squadron of children,
laughing, terrified, fascinated, screaming, turning their heads as they
ran, with a dog or two yelping among them, and a few women drifting
sideways along the pavements. A face of a man, Mabel saw as she glanced
in terror upwards, had appeared at the windows opposite, pale and
eager--some in