The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with a look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his blessing.
They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin.
“Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the people feared her?”
“Ay, she died alone,” answered Martin, and muttered, “now God forgive me!” under his breath.
As they went into the wretched shed the setting sun broke through the lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead woman. It lighted each vicious line and hideous trait of the wrinkled, toothless face, and betrayed the mark of an evil life, surcharged with horrid fear.
Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness be death? The Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed him.
“Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as thou didst read in thy dream.”
The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed was heard the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the beaten earth floor. The people without, staring, open-mouthed and silent, saw the Friar look up; his hand hastily outstretched touched the dank, muddy hair; then he knew all, and fell on his face with an exceeding bitter cry. It was answered by another cry—the glad cry of a lost child that is found.
The Friar, standing in front of that hovel of death, preached to the cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt and crouched in the down-trodden grass and quag. He threw up his arms, and turned his blind, anguished face to the setting sun.
“Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that take counsel but not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness shall come upon them; Death shall overtake them; their place shall know them no more. Let them bare their backs to the scourge, let them confess and repent ere I visit them as I visited Sodom and Gomorrah, cities of the Plain.