WITHOUT blazed autumn sunshine, strong as summer sunshine in northern
lands. Within the cathedral dusk ruled, rich and mysterious. The
sanctuary light burned, a star. The candles were yet smoking, the
incense yet clung, thick and pungent. Vanishing through the sacristy
door went the last flutter of acolyte or chorister. The throng that
worshipped dwindled to a few lingering shapes. The rest disappeared by
the huge portal, marvellously sculptured. It had been a great throng,
for Bishop Ugo had preached. Now the cathedral was almost empty, and
more rich, more mysterious because of that. The saints in their niches
could be seen the better, and the gold dust from the windows came in
unbroken shafts to the pavement. There they splintered and light lay
in fragments. One of these patches made a strange glory for the head
of Boniface of Beaucaire who was doing penance, stretched out on the
pavement like a cross. Lost in the shadows of nave, aisles, and chapels
were other penitents, on their knees, muttering prayers. Hugues from
up the river lay on his face, half in light, half in shadow, before
the shrine of Saint Martial. Hugues’s penance had been heavy, for he
was a captain of Free Lances and had beset and robbed a travelling
monk. But in Hugues’s cavern that night the monk turned preacher and
wrought so mightily that he brought Hugues—who was a simple, emotional
soul—to his knees, and the next day, when they parted, sent him here
for penance. He lay bare to the waist, and his back was bloody from the
scourging he had received before the church doors.
lands. Within the cathedral dusk ruled, rich and mysterious. The
sanctuary light burned, a star. The candles were yet smoking, the
incense yet clung, thick and pungent. Vanishing through the sacristy
door went the last flutter of acolyte or chorister. The throng that
worshipped dwindled to a few lingering shapes. The rest disappeared by
the huge portal, marvellously sculptured. It had been a great throng,
for Bishop Ugo had preached. Now the cathedral was almost empty, and
more rich, more mysterious because of that. The saints in their niches
could be seen the better, and the gold dust from the windows came in
unbroken shafts to the pavement. There they splintered and light lay
in fragments. One of these patches made a strange glory for the head
of Boniface of Beaucaire who was doing penance, stretched out on the
pavement like a cross. Lost in the shadows of nave, aisles, and chapels
were other penitents, on their knees, muttering prayers. Hugues from
up the river lay on his face, half in light, half in shadow, before
the shrine of Saint Martial. Hugues’s penance had been heavy, for he
was a captain of Free Lances and had beset and robbed a travelling
monk. But in Hugues’s cavern that night the monk turned preacher and
wrought so mightily that he brought Hugues—who was a simple, emotional
soul—to his knees, and the next day, when they parted, sent him here
for penance. He lay bare to the waist, and his back was bloody from the
scourging he had received before the church doors.
