The child cried with still deeper grief, and, after a momentary hesitation, pushed his hand into Swithin’s for protection.
‘Hush, hush! my child,’ said Swithin distractedly. ‘I’ll take care of you! O Viviette!’ he exclaimed again, pressing her face to his.
But she did not reply.
‘What can this be?’ he asked himself. He would not then answer according to his fear.
He looked up for help. Nobody appeared in sight but Tabitha Lark, who was skirting the field with a bounding tread—the single bright spot of colour and animation within the wide horizon. When he looked down again his fear deepened to certainty. It was no longer a mere surmise that help was vain. Sudden joy after despair had touched an over-strained heart too smartly. Viviette was dead. The Bishop was avenged.