The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front of
the miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor
place and its dead dishonoured mistress.
Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius
and the Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept
common. March mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the
dry reeds rattled dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius
shivered, and the Friar started nervously when Martin spoke.
"Friar," he said, "God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art
too late to speed thy mother's soul; she passed to-day, and lies
even now awaiting burial at thy faithful hands."
The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with
a look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads
abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his
blessing.
They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin.
"Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the people
feared her?"
"Ay, she died alone," answered Martin, and muttered, "now God
forgive me!" under his breath.
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