And then, while I stood dazed, she tore open her gown, and drawing forth a little gold locket, pressed it in my palm.  “The flowers you gave me on your birthday,—­the lilies of the valley, do you remember?  They are here, Richard.  I have worn them upon my heart ever since.”

I raised the locket to my lips.

“I shall treasure it for your sake, Dorothy,” I said, “for the sake of the old days.  God keep you!”

For a moment I looked into the depths of her eyes.  Then she was gone, and I went down the stairs alone.  Outside, the rain fell unheeded on my new coat.  My steps bent southward, past Whitehall, where the martyr Charles had met death so nobly:  past the stairs to the river, where she had tripped with me so gayly not a month since.  Death was in my soul that day,—­death and love, which is the mystery of life.  God guided me into the great Abbey near by, where I fell on my knees before Him and before England’s dead.  He had raised them and cast them down, even as He was casting me, that I might come to know the glory of His holy name.