Robert, going to the wall where the relic stood, tried vainly to lift the cross. Its weight mocked his efforts, and he turned, gasping and trembling, to Hieronymus. “Father, I cannot. The sinews of the fool are too feeble to lift it.”
Hieronymus gave a cry of compassion.
“Forgive me. It is heavy, and taxes my strength to move.”
In his turn he moved to the cross, lifted it with an effort from its place, and carried it with difficulty to the altar, where he rested it for the new-comers to see.
The ache in Robert’s heart was crueler than the ache in Robert’s arms.
“I was once so proud of my strength,” he murmured.
He moved towards the altar, and seated himself on the lowest step, huddled in grief, while Hieronymus, mounting to the altar, turned to face the new-comers. Through the sea-door came a company of men and women, all dressed in black, who ranged themselves, kneeling, in front of the altar.
Hieronymus addressed the kneeling mourners. “My brethren, are ye going forth into exile?”
An old man rose and spoke.