She could scarcely advance, for the wind drove her kirtle about her lean thighs, and her feet with the heavy tan shoes sank ankle deep in the puddles formed by the water in the interstices of the flagstones.  The rain beat against her face, mingling with the tears which now flowed freely down her cheeks.  But she did not heed the discomfort nor yet the cold, and she would not be restrained.

The next moment she stood beside the rough wooden coffin and with a steady hand had lifted the wet sheet, which continued to flap with dull, mournful sound round the feet of the dead.

The Quakeress looked down upon the figure stretched out here in death—­neither majestic nor peaceful, but horrible and weirdly mysterious.  She did not flinch at the sight.  Resentment against the foreigner dimmed her sense of horror.

“So my fine prince,” she said, whilst awed at the spectacle of this old woman parleying with the dead, carriers and mourners had instinctively moved a few steps away from her, “so thou wouldst harm my boy! ...  Thou always didst hate him ... thou with thy grand airs, and thy rough ways....  Had the Lord allowed it, this hand of thine would ere now have been raised against him ... as it oft was raised against the old woman ... whose infirmities should have rendered her sacred in thy sight.”

She stooped, and deliberately raised the murdered man’s hand in hers, and for one moment fixed her gaze upon it.  For that one moment she was silent, looking down at the rough fingers, the coarse nails, the blistered palm.

Then still holding the hand in hers, she looked up, then round at every face which was turned fixedly upon her.  Thus she encountered the eyes of the men and women, present here only to witness an unwonted spectacle, then those of the kindly squire, of Lady Sue, of Mistress de Chavasse, and of her other lad—­Richard—­all of whom had instinctively followed her down the short flagged path in the wake of her strange and prophetic pilgrimage.

Lastly her eyes met those of Marmaduke de Chavasse.  Then she spoke slowly in a low muffled voice, which gradually grew more loud and more full of passionate strength.

“Aye! the Lord is just,” she said, “the Lord is great!  It is the dead which shall rise again and proclaim the innocence of the just, and the guilt of the wicked.”

She paused a while, and stooped to kiss the marble-like hand which she held tightly grasped in hers.

“Adam!” she murmured, “Adam, my boy! ... my lad! ...”

The men and women looked on, stupidly staring, not understanding yet, what new tragedy had suddenly taken the place of the old.

“Aunt, aunt dear,” whispered Lambert, who had pushed his way forward, and now put his arm round the old woman, for she had begun to sway, “what is the matter, dear?” he repeated anxiously, “what does it mean?”

And conquering his own sense of horror and repulsion, he tried to disengage the cold and rigid hand of the dead from the trembling grasp of the Quakeress.  But she would not relinquish her hold, only she turned and looked steadily at the young lad, whilst her voice rose firm and harsh above the loud patter of the rain and the moaning of the wind through the distant; trees.