The snow fell suddenly, and, caught and whirled by a powerful wind, filled the air with a thick whiteness like spreading smoke; it blew against the two gentlemen, and in a second covered their mantles with glittering crystals.
Romney stepped back and shook it from him.
"Shall we not go into the church," he said, with a shiver, "and persuade the King return?"
"It doth not matter if he be at her grave or in his cabinet," answered Portland gloomily, "since his temper is the same wherever he be."
Romney turned towards the low door that led into the Abbey.
"Did you mark," he said irrelevantly, "that the robin was still on her gravestone?"
"Yes," replied Portland; "it hath been singing there since she was buried."
They entered the large, mysterious church. The snowstorm had so obscured the light from the tall, high windows that the columns, roof, and tombs were alike enveloped in a deep shade; it was very cold and the air hung misty and heavy.
Above the altar, to their right, swung a red burning lamp that gave no light, but showed as a sudden gleam of crimson.
On the altar itself burnt four tall candles that gleamed on the polished gold sacred vessels and faintly showed the sweep of marble and the violet-hued carpet beyond the brass rails which divided the altar from the steps.