Three days later, the sun, shining through the windows of the ancient Abbey church, fell upon sculptured saint and heavenward-pointing angel, revealed the lettering on many a mural tablet dedicated to long-departed men and women, illumined the sombre crowd of black-clothed worshippers, and gleamed on the silver coffin plate of the dead President. Deep organ notes rolled beneath the fretted arches as choir and congregation, with heads bowed low, raised in mournful cadence the wail of the _Dies iræ_. Apart from the girl, by whose side Linton Herrick knelt, perhaps there were few present who really mourned for Nicholas Jardine. But, as people do at such a time, they mourned for themselves, they mourned for humanity; and recent local events--the strange convulsions of nature, with the apprehension of more terrible possibilities to come, served to accentuate the feelings of the worshippers. For the moment, at any rate, they believed in the life of the world to come. They recognised in the burial of the dead that dread passing through the gate of judgment to which man, frail man, has ever been predestined. The air was full of lamentations: "Day of wrath! O day of mourning! See fulfill'd the prophets' warning! Heav'n and earth in ashes burning! Oh, what fears, man's bosom rendeth, When from heav'n the Judge descendeth, On Whose sentence all dependeth! Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth, Through earth's sepulchres it ringeth, All before the Throne it bringeth!" Verse after verse the solemn litany continued: "Ah! that day of tears and mourning, From the dust of earth returning, Man for judgment must prepare him; Spare, O God, in mercy spare him." The funeral march pealed forth as the body was borne from the Church. Slowly the congregation dispersed, until at last only one figure remained, the solitary kneeling form of Zenobia. * * * * * Within an hour after Linton had left the cemetery, he received a telegram in cipher from Sir Robert Herrick. He gave immediate instructions to Wilton, and sent a message to Zenobia. She came to him at once. Linton looked at her with troubled eyes. There was something infinitely pathetic in the aspect of this slim, fair girl with the sunny hair, on whose face suffering and distress of spirit suddenly had set so sad a stamp. "Good-bye," she answered, "God grant that you may both come safely back. When Mr. Renshaw is in England, I must see him, I must tell him all." With a final pressure of her hand, he turned away. However much his heart might be wrung at leaving her, however hard to keep back the words of love and tenderness that rose to his lips, he must be silent for the moment. There was a task to be performed. It was the hour for action. Great issues were involved. A national crisis was at hand.