But who shall cherish the flickering spark?
The aspect of nature seems all merciless. Is there mercy yet in man?
A faint beating of the heart; a faint pulsation of the wrist—it might be quickened into life.
Is it well that he should live?
A typical Englishman, of Saxon lineage, stout, thickset. Did we believe in the transmigration of souls, we should say he had been a bull in some previous state of existence. Vast strength, great endurance, do find their incarnations in that frame: he might have felled an ox, but yet he went down before the subtlety of Norman fence.
Is it good that he should live, an outlaw, whose life any Norman may take and no questions asked? Look at that arm; it may account for many a Norman lost in solitary wayfaring. Oh! what memories of wrong sleep within that insensible brain!
Happily it is for a wiser power to decide.
Listen, there is a tinkling of small bells over there in the distance. It draws nearer; the dog gives a louder howl—now the party is close.
Five or six horses, a sumpter mule, five or six ecclesiastics in sombre dress, riding the horses, the hoods drawn back over the heads, the horses richly caparisoned, little silver bells dependent here and there from their harness.