A scarlet veil hung before them. He tried to thrust it aside with his hands, which seemed to fail him and miss the mark. Succeeding at last, he saw a vast creature standing motionless above him, its hot breath mingling with his, its great eyes, only a hand-breadth away, looking with infinite tenderness into his own. He tried to recollect himself, and something in his hand gave him a clue. "This thing," he mused, "is surely my handkerchief. It belongs to John Scattergood. It is one of a dozen his poor drug-sodden wife gave him on Christmas Day. And here, close to me, is Ethelberta. How red her feet are!" And he stared vacantly at a deep gash on Ethelberta's chest, and watched the great gouts that were dripping from her knees and forming crimson pools around her hoofs. The crimson pools were full of mystery; they fascinated and troubled him; they were problems in philosophy he couldn't solve. "Surely," he thought, "I _have_ solved them, but forgotten the solution. I have lost the notes of my lecture. Dyed garments from Bozrah--red, red! The colour of my doctor's gown--I have trodden the wine-press alone. The colour of poppies--drowsy syrups--deadly drugs! The ground-tint of the Universe--a difficult problem! Strange that a friendly Universe should be so red. Gentlemen, I am not well to-day--don't laugh at a sick man. The red is quite simple. It only means that someone is hurt. Not I, certainly. Who can it be? Ah, now I see. Poor old girl!" And he feebly reached out his handkerchief, already soaked with his own blood, as though he would staunch the streaming wounds of Ethelberta. As he did this, the great bell broke out afresh. It fell away into the distance. A second joined it; a third, a fourth, a fifth, until a whole peal was ringing and the air seemed full of music and of summer warmth. Then Scattergood began to dream his last dream, ineffably content. He stood by the open door of a church: inside he could see the ringers pulling at the ropes. And Ethelberta, young and happy as himself, was leaning on his arm. "Sweetheart," she whispered, "let us behave ourselves like rational beings." He laughed and would have spoken. But a din of clattering hoofs, which drowned the pealing of the bells, struck him dumb. The swift image of a grey-headed man, riding a maddened horse, shot out of the darkness, passed by, and vanished; and the wedding-party stood aghast. "Who is yonder rider?" he said, with a great effort, bending over Ethelberta. "A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief," said a soft voice in his ear. A thousand echoes caught up the words and flung them far abroad. Then thunders awoke behind, and rolled after the echoes like pursuing cavalry. "_A man of sorrows_," cried the echoes. "_He has come through great tribulations_," the thunders shouted in reply.