_Toll!_ At the high Cathedral door the Quires Meet them and lead them, singing all the while A mighty _Miserere_ for her soul! Then, as the rolling organ--_toll, ah toll!_-- Floods every glimmering aisle With ocean-thunders, all those knights and squires Bring the false Coffin to the central nave And set it in the Catafalque o'er her grave. The Catafalque was made in Field-bed wise Valanced with midnight purple, fringed with gold: All the Chief Mourners on dark thrones were set Within it, as jewels in some huge carcanet: Above was this device IN MY DEFENCE, GOD ME DEFEND, inscrolled Round the rich Arms of Scotland, as to say "Man judged me. I abide the Judgment Day." The sexton paused anew. All looked at him, And at his wrinkled, grim, earth-coloured hand, As if, in that dim light, beclouded now With blue tobacco-smoke, they thought to see The smouldering ruby again. "Ye know," he said, "How master William Wickham preached that day?" Ford nodded. "I have heard of it. He showed Subtly, O very subtly, after his kind, That the white Body of Beauty such as hers Was in itself Papistical, a feast, A fast, an incense, a burnt-offering, And an Abomination in the sight Of all true Protestants. Why, her very name Was Mary!" "Ay, that's true, that's very true!" The sexton mused. "Now that's a strange deep thought! The Bishop missed a text in missing that. Her name, indeed, was Mary!" "Did you find Your keys again?" "Ay, Sir, I found them!" "Where?" "Strange you should ask me that! After the throng Departed, and the Nobles were at feast, All in the Bishop's Palace--a great feast And worthy of their sorrow--I came back Carrying my uncle's second bunch of keys To lock the doors and search, too, for mine own. 'Twas growing dusk already, and as I thrust The key into the lock, the great grey porch Grew cold upon me, like a tomb. I pushed Hard at the key--then stopped--with all my flesh Freezing, and half in mind to fly; for, sirs, The door was locked already, and--_from within_! I drew the key forth quietly and stepped back Into the Churchyard, where the graves were warm With sunset still, and the blunt carven stones Lengthened their homely shadows, out and out, To Everlasting. Then I plucked up heart, Seeing the footprints of that mighty Masque Along the pebbled path. A queer thought came Into my head that all the world without Was but a Masque, and I was creeping back, Back from the Mourner's Feast to Truth again. Yet--I grew bold, and tried the Southern door. 'Twas locked, but held no key on the inner side To foil my own, and softly, softly, click,