That their own beloved ‘Passon’ should be kneeling at the altar in the agony of his own heart’s Gethsemane was too much for their simple and affectionate souls,—­and they withdrew in haste and silence, many of them with tears in their eyes.  They were considerably awed too by the discovery that no less a personage than the Bishop of the diocese himself was companioning Walden in his trouble,—­and, moving away in little groups of twos and threes, they stood about here and there in the churchyard, waiting for they knew not what, and all affected by the same thrill of mingled suspense, hope and fear.  Among them was Bainton, who, when he had peered into the white silence of the church and had seen for himself that it was indeed his master who was praying there beside his Bishop, made no pretence to hide his emotion.

“We be all fools together,”—­he said to Adam Frost in hoarse accents, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand—­“We ain’t no stronger nor wiser than a lot o’ chitterin’ sparrows on a housetop!  Old Josey, he be too weak an’ ailin’ to get out in this kind o’ weather, but he sez he’s prayin’ ’ard, which I truly believe he is, though he ain’t in church.  All the village is on its knees this marnin’ I reckon, whether it’s workin’ in fields or gardens, or barns or orchards, an’ if the Lord A’mighty don’t take no notice of us, He must be powerful ’ard of ’earin’!”

Adam Frost coughed warningly,—­jerked his thumb in the direction of the church, and was silent.

Suddenly a lark sang.  Rising from the thick moss and jgrass which quilted over the grave of ‘th’ owld Squire,’ Maryllia’s father, the bird soared hoveringly aloft into the sun-warmed February air,—­and by one common impulse the villagers looked up, watching the quivering of its wings.

“Bless us!  That’s the first skylark of the year!” said Mrs. Frost, who, holding her blue-eyed ‘Baby Hippolyta,’ otherwise Ipsie, by the hand, stood near the church porch—­“Ain’t it singin’ sweet?”

“Fine!” murmured one or two of her gossips near her,—­“Seems a good sign o’ smilin’ weather!”

There was a silence then among the merely human company, while the bird of heaven sang on more and more exultingly, and soared higher and higher into the misty grey-blue of the sky.

All at once the clock struck with a sharp clang ‘one.’  Inside the church, its deep reverbation startled the watchers from their prayers with an abrupt shock—­and Walden lifted his head from his folded arms, showing in the bright shaft of strong sunshine that now bathed him in its radiance, his sad eyes, heavy and swollen with restrained tears.  Suddenly there was a murmur of voices outside,—­a smothered cry,—­and then a little flying figure, breathless, hatless, with wild sparkling eyes and dark hair streaming loose in the wind, rushed into the church.  It was Cicely.  “It’s all over!” she cried.

Walden sprang up, sick and dizzy.  Bishop Brent rose from his knees slowly, his delicate right hand clutching nervously at the altar rail.  Like men in a dream, they heard and gazed, stricken by a mutual horror too paralysing for speech.