And as they gossiped and criticised, tearing each other to pieces without zest, having already done it so often that their minds resembled rows of backyards piled with the rags and bones of their mutual enemies—or so-called friends—the organ played softly, and the sun through the stained glass flung dazzling lozenges of colour upon the tiles and pillars.
Then came that unmistakable rustle of anticipation, followed by the satisfied sigh of those who have patiently waited either for the hoisting of the black flag upon the prison wall, or the appearance of a popular bride in the doorway of the church.
There was a shimmer of white and silver, and a strenuous tussle in the pews and aisles as the stereotyped march from "Lohengrin" crashed through the little church.
Jan Cuxson made one step backwards, and stopped as his heel struck against the wall, then stepped forward and stood right in the path of the bridal party.
Straight down they came without a halt; gushing women who did not know her darted forward to shower the bride with their unwanted congratulations, hesitated and darted back with self-conscious giggles as they met the stony, unresponsive eyes in the death-white face.
Very slowly she passed, with the fingers of one hand resting on the arm of the corpulent, self-satisfied man beside her; the other arm, bandaged from elbow to wrist, was held in a sling across her breast, the fingers nearly touching the one jewel she wore, a sleepy cat's-eye hanging from a slender golden chain.
The happy bride was looking straight in front, down the road to Calvary, where stood a man outlined against the burst of light flooding through the door.
She neither slowed nor hastened as she passed through the lane of twitching mouths and popping eyes and approached him; then she stood quite still, a gleaming, living statue in shimmering satin and lace, and removing her hand from her husband's arm, laid it with a little gracious gesture on Jan Cuxson's, and he, bending low, gently kissed it.
An artist made the record lightning sketch of his life when in a few lines he drew the dignity, the despair, and the tenderness of the girl's face, upon whose brow and above whose heart rested weirdly two great crimson stains flung by the sun through the coloured windows.
For one brief second her moonlit eyes looked straight into the steady grey ones; then the heavy lids sank slowly, and the faintest rose colour swept from brow to chin, causing the artist to murmur to himself, "The ice floes are breaking!" as, like the gallant gentleman he was, he tore the sketch slowly across and across.