The dusk of its vaulted roof was not cool and sweet like the arching of
green branches, but chill with damp odors of antiquity. She sat down in
one of the arcades near the portal above the steps that descend into the
nave. The immense edifice seemed quite empty. The perpetual lamp burned
before the altar, and wandering echoes thrilled in the upper galleries.
Through a low-browed open door streamed across the aisle a flood of
sunshine, and there was the sound of chisel and mallet from the same
quarter, the stone-yard of the cathedral; but there was no visible
worshipper--nothing to interrupt her mood of reverie.
For a long while, that is. Presently chimed in with the music of chisel
and mallet the ring of eager young footsteps outside, young men's
footsteps, voices and dear English speech. One was freely translating
from his guide-book: "The cathedral, many times destroyed, was rebuilt
after the fire of 1106, and not completed until the eighteenth century.
It is therefore of several styles. The length is one hundred and two
metres and the height twenty-three metres from floor to vault."
Bessie's breath came and went very fast; so did the blood in her cheeks.
Surely that voice she knew. It was Harry Musgrave's voice, and this was
why thoughts of the Forest had haunted her all the morning.
The owner of the voice entered, and it was Harry Musgrave--he and two
others, all with the fresh air of British tourists not long started on
their tour, knapsack on back and walking-stick in hand.
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