The Prince found the place, his tired but fervent voice came through the distraction of other sounds.
“‘Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons; we humbly commend the soul of this Thy servant, our dear brother, into Thy hands——’”
“Into Thy hands,” whispered Mr. Bromley.
“‘—as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour; most humbly beseeching Thee, that it may be precious in Thy sight——’”
The wind and the restless complainings without were unceasing. Mr. Bromley clasped his hands on his breast; the Prince read on carefully—
“‘—and teach us who survive, in this and like daily spectacles of mortality, to see how frail and uncertain our own condition is; and so to number our days, that we may seriously apply our hearts to that holy and heavenly wisdom, whilst we live here.…’
“I read so ill, my poor English,” murmured the Prince.
“No—I understand.”
“‘—which may in the end bring us to life everlasting, through the merits of Jesus Christ our Lord——’”