and he stopped; then he rose, and looked at his watch and slowly
followed the Bishop's steps.

The little church of Saint Peter's-by-the-Sea was filled even on this
hot July afternoon, to hear the famous Bishop, and in the half-light
that fell through painted windows and lay like a dim violet veil against
the gray walls, the congregation with summer gowns and flowery hats, had
a billowy effect as of a wave tipped everywhere with foam. Fielding,
sitting far back, saw only the white-robed Bishop, and hardly heard the
words he said, through listening for the modulations of his voice. He
was anxious for the man who was dear to him, and the service and its
minister were secondary to-day. But gradually the calm, reverent,
well-known tones reassured him, and he yielded to the pleasure of
letting his thoughts be led, by the voice that stood to him for
goodness, into the spirit of the words that are filled with the beauty
of holiness. At last it was time for the sermon, and the Bishop towered
in the low stone pulpit and turned half away from them all as he raised
one arm high with a quick, sweeping gesture.

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen!"
he said, and was still.

A shaft of yellow light fell through a memorial window and struck a
golden bar against the white lawn of his surplice, and Fielding, staring
at him with eyes of almost passionate devotion, thought suddenly of Sir
Galahad, and of that "long beam" down which had "slid the Holy Grail."
Surely the flame of that old vigorous Christianity had never burned
higher or steadier. A marvellous life for this day, kept, like the
flower of Knighthood, strong and beautiful and "unspotted from the
world." Fielding sighed as he thought of his own life, full of good