She paused, and suddenly discovered that I was half fainting. “Come out into the air,” she whispered. I got up and went out with her just in time.
They had carried him into a distant corner of the churchyard. My father, when he saw us standing together in a little group, came slowly over as though to check our further advance. His face was haggard and drawn. He seemed to walk with difficulty, and underneath his surplice I could see that one hand was pressed to his side.
“The man is dead,” he said, quietly. “There must have been an accident or a fight. No one seems to know where he came from.”
“I wonder,” remarked the Bishop, thoughtfully, “why he should have dragged himself up to the church in such a plight. One of those cottages or the Vicarage would have been nearer.”
“Perhaps,” my father answered, gravely, “he was struggling for sanctuary.”
And the Bishop held up his right hand towards the sky with a solemn gesture.
“God grant that he may have found it,” he prayed.