The symphony was played, and then Henry Arkell's voice rose soft and clear, filling the old cathedral with its harmony, and the words falling as distinctly on the ear as if they had been spoken. "I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh I shall see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another." The organist could not have told _why_ he put up that particular anthem, but it was a remarkable coincidence, noticed afterwards, that it should have been a funeral one. But though Henry Arkell's voice never faltered or trembled, his changing face spoke of bodily disease or mental emotion: one moment it was bright as a damask rose, the next of a transparent whiteness. Every eye was on him, wondering at the beauty of his voice, at the marvellous beauty of his countenance: some sympathised with his emotion; some were wrapt in the solemn thoughts created by the words. When the solo was concluded, Henry, with an involuntary glance at the pew of Mrs. Beauclerc, fell against the back of his stall for support: he looked exhausted. Only for a moment, however, for the chorus commenced. He joined in it; his voice rose above all the rest in its sweetness and power; but as the ending approached, and the voices ceased, and the last sound of the organ died upon the ear, his face bent forward, and rested without motion on the choristers' desk. "Arkell, what are you up to?" whispered one of the lay-clerks from behind, as Mr. Wilberforce recommenced his chanting. No response. "Nudge him, Wilberforce; he's going to sleep. There's the dean casting his eyes this way." Edwin Wilberforce did as he was desired, but Arkell never stirred. So Mr. Tenor leaned over and grasped him by the arm, and pulled him up with a sudden jerk. But he did not hold him, and the poor head fell forward again upon the desk. Henry Arkell had fainted. Some confusion ensued: for the four choristers below him had every one to come out of the stall before he could be got out. Mr. Wilberforce momentarily stopped chanting, and directed his angry spectacles towards the choristers, not understanding what caused the hubbub, and inwardly vowing to flog the whole five on the morrow. Mr. Smith, a strong man, came out of his stall, lifted the lifeless form in his arms, and carried it out to the side aisle, the head, like a dead weight, hanging down over his shoulder. All the eyes and all the glasses in the cathedral were bent on them; and the next to come out of his stall, by the prebendaries, and follow in the wake, was Mr. St. John, a flush of emotion on his pale face. The dean's family, after service, met Mr. St. John in the cloisters. "Is he better?" asked Mrs. Beauclerc. "What was the matter with him the second time?" "He fainted; but we soon brought him to in the vestry. Young Wilberforce ran and got some water. They are walking home with him now."