That was just as the winter night was darkening on the Saturday evening.
[CHAPTER XLVIII.]
SHATTERED PILLARS.
'The heart which like a staff was one,
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day,
With steadfast love, is caught away,
And yet my days go on, go on.'
E. Barrett Browning.
In the darkness before the winter dawn, William slowly put the little skiff across the river, and went up to the Priory, where only one or two upper windows showed a pale light behind the blinds. All was intensely still, as the garden-door yielded to his hand, and he crossed the dark hall, then mounted the stairs, which creaked under his tread, and, pausing in the gallery, seemed drawn irresistibly to the door of the room which had been the centre of all their thoughts and cares.
His cautious touch of the lock was responded to from within. There was enough light in the room to show the carved Angel, and beneath it the silent face that seemed to be watching in hope for the trumpet.
Not much less white and set was Clement's face as, laying a cold set of fingers on William's arm, he drew him into his own room where they stood for some minutes, neither knowing how to speak, till the church clock striking broke the silence, and Will said: