Eric sank to his knees and hid his face against the still form, and as he did so he felt something wet upon his cheek, something that was trickling slowly down upon the floor where he knelt, something that was gradually spreading in a dark patch, which widened over the grey folds of the robe. And then Eric saw that within the woman's heart a dagger had been thrust.... A dagger within the very centre of her heart.
XI
Over thy creations of beauty there is a mist of tears.
Tagore.
High and austere in their forsaken silence stood the walls of the great church—God's own sun looked in through the crumbling windows, and God's own sky was its only roof. Many of the columns had fallen, but others stood, erect and rigid, frowning down from their immense height, grey and lonely, like giant trees in winter.
Large heaps of stones lay about the mosaic floor that still showed signs of a beautiful design; statues had fallen from their pedestals and lay in helpless attitudes, their arms broken, their vacant eyes gazing with stony indifference into the sunshine. Sometimes their heads were missing, having rolled away as they fell.
Nature was rapidly doing her work; she was spreading her consoling mantle of verdure and flowers over this crumbling work of art, which human hands had once, long ago, built with pious vows and prayers.
Growths were bursting out of every crevice and crack in rambling confusion. Even the wild plants of the heath beyond had begun to creep into the church, giving the forgotten monument a festive look as if flowers had been strewn everywhere on the floor for some blessed feast-day. In greater masses than any other plant, wild lavender had taken possession of the church, bursting the mosaic floor asunder in a thousand places and pushing its way everywhere, so that over all lay a bluey-grey shimmer like evening mists rising out of a bog.