He ceased. The old man approached the coffin. For a long moment he stood with hands resting on it—as if he would gather from it something of the strength of the race that was passing. Then with grave face he lifted the strings of cash and placed them about his neck and gathered up the silver shoes from beside the coffin and took from a little shelf by the platform a red umbrella and a pair of half-worn sandals. With courteous gesture he passed from the room.
XXIV
|In the grove outside the city wall they paused to rest.
The interpreter, who had come with them from the house and refused to leave them till the city gate was reached, had been paid and was returning to the temple.
As they passed through the streets, they had been conscious of curious whispers, glances from behind opaque windows and rustling from concealed doorways and passages beyond—so a hive of bees despoiled of its comb stirs with low-murmured sound and the restless whir of wings.... But no one had approached them, no one barred passage to the light oblong box that Richard More carried so carefully in his hand.
At the entrance to the grove he glanced at his wife.
“We shall rest here,” he said with quiet decision.
And she acquiesced—a little smile coming to her lips as they entered the grove.