The bell was chiming for the evensong, and Sir Philip passed in. He was recognised by an old verger, who, with a low bow, preceded him to the choir.
Lady Pembroke was right when she said that her brother looked younger than he had looked some years before.
There never was a time, perhaps, in his life, when his face had been more attractive and his bearing more distinguished than now.
The eyes of the somewhat scanty congregation were directed to him as he stood chanting in his clear, sweet musical voice the Psalms for the second evening of the month.
The sun, entering at the west door, caught his 'amber locks' and made them glow like an aureole round his head, as he lifted it with glad assurance when the words left his lips.
'But my trust is in Thy mercy, and my heart is joyful in Thy salvation. I will sing of the Lord because He hath dealt so lovingly with me; yea, I will praise the name of the Lord Most Highest.'
Those who saw Sir Philip Sidney that day, recalled him as he stood in the old oaken stall, only one short year later, when, with bowed head and sad hearts, they could but pray in the words of the Collect for the week, 'that they might follow the blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that they might come to those unspeakable joys which are prepared for them that love God.'
Sir Philip had not time to delay, though the Dean hurried after the service to greet him and to offer hospitality.
'I must be on my road to London,' he said, 'for a great event awaits me there, Mr Dean—the baptism of my little daughter, to whom the Queen is graciously pleased to stand godmother.'
'And God give you a safe journey, Sir Philip, and bless the child,' the kindly Dean said. 'How fares it with the daughter of my good friend Sir Francis Walsingham? I trust she is well recovered.'