The
Queen turned her head at the sound, in surprise, and watched the young
man's grave face for a moment without attracting his attention.
Apparently she was not pleased, for her brows were very slightly drawn
together, the corners of her eyes drooped, and the deep bright blue was
darkened. At that moment the canopy swayed a little, the ancient bishop
moved his shoulders under the heavy cope in the effort of starting
again, and the procession began to move onward.
Next after the bishop, from behind the end of the church, the King came
into sight, walking, monk-like, with folded hands, moving lips and
downcast eyes, the long embroidered bliaut reaching almost to his feet,
while the scarlet mantle, lined with blue and bordered with ermine,
fell straight from his shoulders and touched the turf as he walked. He
was bareheaded, and as Eleanor noticed what was evidently intended for
another act of humility, the serene curve of her closed lips was
sharpened in scorn. And suddenly, as she gazed at her husband's cold,
white features in contempt, she heard Gilbert's voice at her elbow
again, chanting the Latin words musically and distinctly, and she
turned almost with a movement of anger to see the bold young face
saddened and softened by the essence of a profound belief.
"Was I born to love monks!" she sighed half audibly; but as she looked
back at the procession she started and uttered a low exclamation.
Beside her husband, but a little after him as the pageant turned, a
straight, thin figure came into sight, clad in a monk's frock scarcely
less dazzling white than the marvellous upturned face.
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