in their ears.  Each felt the impulse in himself, and in the same breath, caught it from his neighbour.  Within the church, it had hardly been kept down; beneath the sky it pealed upward to the zenith.  There were human beings enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious feeling to produce that more impressive sound than the organ tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea; even that mighty swell of many voices, blended into one great voice by the universal impulse which makes likewise one vast heart out of the many.  Never, from the soil of New England had gone up such a shout!  Never, on New England soil had stood the man so honoured by his mortal brethren as the preacher!

How fared it with him, then?  Were there not the brilliant particles of a halo in the air about his head?  So etherealised by spirit as he was, and so apotheosised by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the procession, really tread upon the dust of earth?

As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes were turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach among them.  The shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another obtained a glimpse of him.  How feeble and pale he looked, amid all his triumph!  The energy—­or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up, until he should have delivered the sacred message that had brought its own strength along with it from heaven—­was withdrawn, now that it had so faithfully performed its office.  The glow, which they had just before beheld burning on his cheek, was extinguished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly among the late decaying embers.  It seemed hardly the face of a man alive, with such a death-like hue:  it was hardly a man with life in him, that tottered on his path so nervously, yet tottered, and did not fall!

One of his clerical brethren—­it was the venerable John Wilson—­observing the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the retiring wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to offer his support.  The minister tremulously, but decidedly, repelled the old man’s arm.  He still walked onward, if that movement could be so described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of an infant, with its mother’s arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward.  And now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he had come opposite the well-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold, where, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time between, Hester Prynne had encountered the world’s ignominious stare.  There stood Hester, holding little Pearl by the hand!  And there was the scarlet letter on her breast!  The minister here made a pause; although the music still played the stately and rejoicing march to which the procession moved.  It summoned him onward—­inward to the festival!—­but here he made a pause.