to which came each day more and more denizens. The wide gates stood hospitably open,—there was little need to close them now; and under the shadow of the white cross reared high over the entrance the funeral cortège moved rapidly to its destination. No time in these days for solemn march or death-dirge, the sick claimed all the time of those that were whole; none might linger with the dead.
They reached the grave, and Virginia slipped into Philip's hand the prayer-book open at the burial-service. By the light of the moon, with the two bearers and Virginia kneeling beside him, Philip read aloud the sentences of that great service of the Church of England,—the most glorious and immortal jewel that our language enshrines. When he had said the last words, a sweet, trembling voice which grew stronger at every measure was lifted up, and Virginia sang a hymn of hope and of triumph. The men had already begun the task of filling the grave, but high above the dull sound of the clotted earth striking upon the coffin-lid rose the joyous chant which the virgin martyr sang over the priest whose footsteps she was soon to follow to the land beyond the grave.
In the weeks which followed, Philip Rondelet saw men and women tried, as it is not often given to man to be tried, in a fiery furnace of
