Clergy, headed by a bishop, were walking down
the cathedral. At the huge doors, nearly lost in the heavy twilight of
November noon, they stopped, turned and came back. The coffin swayed
into view, covered with the sacred symbolic bunting, and borne on the
shoulders of eight sergeants of the old regiments of the dead man.
Then followed the pall-bearers--five field-marshals, five full
generals, and two admirals; aged men, and some of them had reached
the highest dignity without giving a single gesture that had impressed
itself on the national mind; nonentities, apotheosised by seniority;
and some showed traces of the bitter rain that was falling in the
fog outside. Then the Primate. Then the King, who had supervened from
nowhere, the magic production of chamberlains and comptrollers. The
procession, headed by the clergy, moved slowly, amid the vistas ending
in the dull burning of stained glass, through the congregation in
mourning and in khaki, through the lines of yellow-glowing candelabra,
towards the crowd of scarlet under the dome; the summit of the
dome was hidden in soft mist. The music became insupportable in its
sublimity.
G.J. was afraid, and he did not immediately know why he was afraid.
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