The man suddenly straightened himself, and glanced away from Bastin. An officer was approaching.
Ralph Bastin walked away, the thought that filled his mind, was of the strange mood that had suddenly come over everyone, since to-day, everybody seemed ready to talk freely of religious things.
He moved on up Cheapside, his destination being St. Paul’s Cathedral.
CHAPTER XXIX.
IN ST. PAUL’S.
The cathedral was packed, packed out to the doors. The aisles, and every other inch of standing-room was a solid Jam. The whole area of the interior showed one black mass of silent waiting, expectant people—it was curious to note that almost every woman had donned black, in some form or other.
The great organ was silent. No one dreamed of singing. The choir seats were full of strangers. The stalls were filled with an indiscriminate crowd. There was no rule, no discipline to-day.
Suddenly the tall, square-built form of a certain well-known Bishop, rose near the pulpit. He had linked his arm in that of one of London’s most popular Nonconformist preachers, and almost dragged him to his feet.
There was evidently a controversy going on between the two men as to which of them should address the people, each urging the other to lead off. The same thought was in the minds of nearly all who were in view of the pair, namely, “how comes it that a Bishop, and a popular preacher like the Rev. ——, have been left behind?”
A strange new tenseness, a deepening silence, settled upon the mighty mass gathered under that great dome. Suddenly the silence was broken by a voice calling: