“If you would like, we will go to Christ Church this morning.”
Robert replied he would gladly go with her.
“The sexton is a Son of Liberty, Robert Newman; you saw him the other night at the Green Dragon; his brother plays the organ,” said Tom.
The sexton welcomed them and gave them seats. Robert gazed in wonder at the fluted columns, the high arched ceiling, the pillars supporting the galleries, the great windows, the recess behind the pulpit, the painting of the Last Supper. He read the words, “This is none other than the House of God; this is the Gate of Heaven.”
The bells ceased their pealing, but suddenly delightful music filled the church.
Christ Church.
“That is John Newman at the organ,” Berinthia whispered.
It began soft and faint, as if far away—a flute, then a clarinet, a trumpet, growing louder, nearer, deeper, heavier, the loud notes rolling like far-off thunder, then dying into melody as sweet as the song of a bird. Never had Robert heard any music so delightful. Looking towards the loft, he saw the gilded pipes of the instrument. Upon the railing around it were figures of angels with trumpets.