"A man," flashed Portland, "hath no right to a broken heart. Good God, could we not all discover broken hearts if we took time to probe them? I know the Queen’s worth, what she was to him, and all of us—but is she served by this weakness of grief? He would best commemorate her by making no pause in his task." "That is a hard doctrine," answered the Englishman half sadly. "It is a hard fate to be a great man, my lord—the destinies of nations are not made easily nor cheaply. When the King began his task he was prepared for the price—he should not now shirk the paying of it——" "It is higher than he thought would be exacted, my lord." Portland answered sternly— "You surely do not understand. What was she, after all, but an incident? He had been ten years at his work before she came." The snow fell suddenly, and, caught and whirled by a powerful wind, filled the air with a thick whiteness like spreading smoke; it blew against the two gentlemen, and in a second covered their mantles with glittering crystals. Romney stepped back and shook it from him. "Shall we not go into the church," he said, with a shiver, "and persuade the King return?" "It doth not matter if he be at her grave or in his cabinet," answered Portland gloomily, "since his temper is the same wherever he be." Romney turned towards the low door that led into the Abbey. "Did you mark," he said irrelevantly, "that the robin was still on her gravestone?" "Yes," replied Portland; "it hath been singing there since she was buried." They entered the large, mysterious church. The snowstorm had so obscured the light from the tall, high windows that the columns, roof, and tombs were alike enveloped in a deep shade; it was very cold and the air hung misty and heavy. Above the altar, to their right, swung a red burning lamp that gave no light, but showed as a sudden gleam of crimson. On the altar itself burnt four tall candles that gleamed on the polished gold sacred vessels and faintly showed the sweep of marble and the violet-hued carpet beyond the brass rails which divided the altar from the steps. There was only one person visible in this large, cold, dark church, and that was a man in the front pew, entirely in black, who neither sat nor knelt, but drooped languidly against the wooden rest in front of him, with his face hidden in his right hand. Portland and Romney took off their hats and approached the altar; they had nearly reached it before they noticed the King, whom they had left at his wife’s grave. Their footsteps were very noticeable in the sombre stillness. The King looked up and rose, holding heavily to the arm of the pew. Romney hesitated, but Portland stepped up to William. "We had best return, sire." The King was silent, his eyes fixed on the altar and the fluttering gold light that dwelt there—a radiance in the gloom.