From above their heads the strange voice came. Far up in the embrasure of a window a man with a lighted torch was standing. John O’Rourke’s eyes met John Rossetti’s, and commanded them, and held them fast.
“We mean no harm,” he said. “We come peaceable, if you meet us peaceable; but if not, there’s danger and death all round ye. I warn ye fairly. Miss Eleanora bade my Bridget come to see her feast, and we’ve come to bring her. Ye’d best sit quiet, all of ye, for we’ve fire to back us.” And he held his torch dangerously near to the curtains. Errickdale hall and Errickdale master were in his power.
Coming through the hall they heard it—the steady, onward tramp of an orderly and determined crowd; the notes of a weird Irish dirge heralded their coming. Two and two the courtiers of Bridget O’Rourke marched in.
Men in rags, their lips close-shut and grim, a rude and flaring torch
borne in each man’s hand; haggard women with wolfish eyes and scantly clad, leading or carrying children who are wailing loudly or moaning in a way that chills the blood to hear, while the women shrilly sing that dirge for a departed soul—would the terrible procession never cease? Blows and clamor would be easier to bear than this long-drawn horror, as two and two the people filed around the loaded tables and gayly-attired guests.
Rising in amazement at the first entrance of these new-comers, throughout their coming Eleanora stood upright, one hand pressed upon her heart, as if to quell its rapid beating. Beautiful, and queenly despite her pallid cheeks, she stood there, yet two and two the people passed slowly up the hall, and slowly passed before her dais, and made no sign of homage. It was another queen who held them in her sway.
Was it over at last?—for the procession that seemed to have no end ceased to file through the lofty doors. The men stood back against the wall, still with their lips close-shut and grim; they lowered their torches as banners are lowered to greet a funeral train. The women flung up their lean, uncovered arms, and shrieked out one more wail of bitter lamentation, then stood silent too. The very babes were still. And all eyes were fixed upon the door—all except John O’Rourke’s, that never stirred from John Rossetti’s face.
Borne in state, though that state was but a board draped with a ragged sheet—her face uncovered to those stars and to that biting frost, her feet bare to those snows for which Eleanora wished; the face marked by a suffering which was far deeper than any that mere cold or hunger causes, yet sealed by it
to an uplifted look which was beyond all earthly loveliness; the hands crossed on a heart that ached no longer, over the crucifix which was this queen’s only treasure—so Bridget O’Rourke had come to Eleanora’s feast.
And so they bore her up the hall; and before the regal dais this more regal bier stood still.