Richard Lambert had begged that the coffin might be taken into the cottage.  The old woman’s co-religionists would help her to obtain for Adam fitting and Christian burial.

After Sir Marmaduke’s sneering taunt no one had spoken.  For these yokels and their womenfolk the matter had passed altogether beyond their ken.  Bewildered, not understanding, above all more than half fearful, they consulted one another vaguely and mutely with eyes and quaint expressive gestures, wondering what had best be done.

’Twas fortunate that the rain had ceased.  One by one the women, still holding their kirtles tightly round their shoulders, began to move away.  The deal box seemed to have reached a degree of mystery from which ’twas best to keep at a distance.  The men, too—­those who had come as spectators—­were gradually edging away; some walked off with their womenfolk, others hung back in groups of three or four discussing the most hospitable place to which ’twere best to adjourn.

All wore a strangely shamed expression of timidity—­almost of self-deprecation, as if apologetic for their presence here when the quality had matters of such grave import to discuss.  No one had really understood Sir Marmaduke’s sneering taunt, only they felt instinctively that there were some secrets which it had been disrespectful even to attempt to guess.

Those who had been prepared to carry the coffin to Minster were the last to hang back.  Squire Boatfield was obviously giving some directions to their foreman, Mat, who tugged at his forelock at intervals, indicating that he was prepared to obey.  The others stood aside waiting for instructions.

Thus the deal box remained on the ground, exactly opposite the tiny wooden gate, strangely isolated and neglected-looking after the dispersal of the interested crowd which had surrounded it awhile ago.  It seemed as if with the establishment of the real identity of the dead the intensity of the excitement had vanished.  The mysterious foreigner had a small court round him; Adam Lambert, only his brother and the old Quakeress.

They remained beside the coffin, she kneeling with her head buried in her wrinkled hands, he standing silent and passionately wrathful both against one man and against destiny.  He had almost screamed with horror when de Chavasse thus brutally uttered Lady Sue’s name:  he had seen the young girl almost sway on her feet, as she smothered the cry of agony and horror which at her guardian’s callous taunt had risen to her lips.

He had seen and in his heart worshiped her for the heroic effort which she made to remain outwardly calm, not to betray before a crowd the agonizing horror, the awful fear and the burning shame which of a truth would have crushed most women of her tender years.  And because he saw that she did not wish to betray one single thought or emotion, he did not approach, nor attempt to show the overwhelming sympathy which he felt.