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Via Crucis by F. Marion (Francis Marion) Crawford
page 19 of 366 (05%)
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. They moved slowly, and she, as in a dream, followed them on the
other side with little steps, wondering, fearing, starting now with a
wild thrill of liberty at last, now struggling with a half
conventional, half hysterical sob that rose in her throat at the
thought of death so near. She had lived with him, she had played the
long comedy of love with him, she had loathed him in her heart, she had
smiled at him with well-trained eyes; and now she was free to choose,
free to love, free to be Arnold's wife. And yet she had lived with the
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