But all that was over now, and the end was at hand.

As Chris knelt there, mechanically responding to the prayers on which the monk’s soul was beginning to lift itself and flutter for escape, there fell a great solemnity on his spirit.  The thought, as old as death, made itself real to him, that this was the end of every man and of himself too.  Where Dom Augustine lay, he would lie, with his past behind him, of which every detail would be instinct with eternal import.  All the tiny things of the monastic life—­the rising in time for the night office, attention during it, the responses to grace, the little movements prescribed by etiquette, the invisible motions of a soul that had or had not acted for the love of God, those stirrings, falls, aspirations, that incessant activity of eighty years—­all so incredibly minute from one point of view, so incredibly weighty from another—­the account of all those things was to be handed in now, and an eternal judgment given.

He looked at the wearied, pained old face again, at the tight-shut eyes, the jerking movements of the unshaven lips, and wondered what was passing behind;—­what strange colloquy of the soul with itself or its Master or great personages of the Court of Heaven.  And all was set in this little bare setting of white walls, a tumbled bed, a shuttered window, a guttering candle or two, a cross of ashes on boards, a ring of faces, and a murmur of prayers!

The solemnity rose and fell in Chris’s soul like a deep organ-note sounding and waning.  How homely and tender were these last rites, this accompaniment of the departing soul to the edge of eternity with all that was dear and familiar to it—­the drops of holy water, the mellow light of candles, and the sonorous soothing Latin!  And yet—­and yet—­how powerless to save a soul that had not troubled to make the necessary efforts during life, and had lost the power of making them now!

* * * * *

When all was over he went out of the cell with an indescribable gravity at his heart.

* * * * *

When the great events in the spring of ’34 began to take place, Chris was in a period of abstracted peace, and the rumours of them came to him as cries from another planet.

Dom Anthony Marks came into the cloister one day from the guest-house with a great excitement in his face,

“Here is news!” he said, joining himself to Chris and another young monk with whom the lonely novice was sometimes allowed to walk.  “Master Humphreys, from London, tells me they are all in a ferment there.”

Chris looked at him with a deferential coldness, and waited for more.

“They say that Master More hath refused the oath, and that he is lodged in the Tower, and my Lord of Rochester too.”

The young monk burst into exclamations and questions, but Chris was silent.  It was sad enough, but what did it matter to him?  What did it really matter to anyone?  God was King.