The procession came nearer. It was upon him.... He knew why he was
afraid, and he averted sharply his gaze from the coffin. He was afraid
for his composure. If he had continued to watch the coffin he would
have burst into loud sobs. Only by an extraordinary effort did he
master himself. Many other people lowered their faces in self-defence.
The searchers after new and violent sensations were having the time of
their lives.
The Dead March with its intolerable genius had ceased. The coffin,
guarded by flickering candles, lay on the lofty catafalque; the eight
sergeants were pretending that their strength had not been in the
least degree taxed. Princes, the illustrious, the champions of
Allied might, dark Indians, adventurers, even Germans, surrounded the
catafalque in the gloom. G.J. sympathised with the man in the coffin,
the simple little man whose non-political mission had in spite of
him grown political. He regretted horribly that once he, G.J., who
protested that he belonged to no party, had said of the dead man:
"Roberts! Well-meaning of course, but senile!" ... Yet a trifle! What
did it matter? And how he loathed to think that the name of the dead
man was now befouled by the calculating and impure praise of schemers.
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