As he bowed his head in the holy hush that followed, the hush of souls before
a wordless bene-diction, some of Sebert's bitterness gave way to a great
compassion. What were we all, when all was told, but wrong-doers and mourners?
Why should one hold anger against another? In pity for himself and the whole
world, his heart ached within him, as a rustling of gowns and a shuffling of
feet told that the worshippers had risen from their knees and were coming
toward him. He raised his bowed head sadly, fearfully.
First came the merchant, tugging at his long beard as he advanced,--though
whether his meditations were the leavings of the mood that had held him or a
reaching forward into the busy future, none could tell. Him, Sebert's eye
dismissed with a listless glance. Behind the trader came the yeomen, one of
them yawning and stretching noisily, the other energetically pulling up his
belt as one tightens the loosened girth on a horse that has had an interval of
rest. The young noble's glance leaped them completely in its haste to reach
those who followed,--the knot of women, fluttering and rustling and preening
like a flock of birds. But the bird he sought was not of their number. He
stared blindly at the pilgrim as the wanderer shuffled past, muttering and
beating his breast. Only one figure followed the penitent, and if that should
not be she! Even though he felt that it could not be--even though he hoped it
was not--hoping and fearing, dreading and longing, his eyes advanced to meet
the last of the worshippers.
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