The lights were
like little stars rising and falling on the horizon, and always just
above a low, black cloud. A moment more, and the evening breeze out of
the west brought a long-drawn harmony of chanting to the Lady Goda's
ear, the high sweet notes of youthful voices sustained by the rich
counterpoint of many grown men's tones. She started, and held her
breath, shivered a little, and snatched at the rose bush beside her, so
that the thorns struck through the soft green gauntlet and pricked her,
though she felt nothing. There was death in the air; there was death in
the moving lights; there was death in the minor wail of the monks'
voices. In the first moment of imperfect understanding, it was Arnold
whom they were bringing home to her, slain in battle by her lawful
husband, or by Gilbert, her son; it was Arnold whom they were bringing
back to her who loved him, that she might wash his wounds with her
tears, and dry his damp brow with her glorious hair. Wide-eyed and
silent, as the train came near, she moved along by the moat to meet the
procession at the drawbridge, not understanding yet, but not letting
one movement of the men, one flicker of the lights, one quaver of the
deep chant, escape her reeling senses. Then all at once she was aware
that Gilbert walked bareheaded before the bier, half wrapped in a long
black cloak that swept the greensward behind him. As she turned the
last bastion before reaching the drawbridge, the funeral was moving
along by the outer edge of the moat, and between the procession and her
there was only the broad water, reflecting the lights of the moving
tapers, the dark cowls of the monks, the white surplices of the song-
boys.
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