He grasped
it gingerly, and his friend the motorman, jabbing at the text with a
scarlet hand, whispered raucously: "'S what they're singin'." But the
singers had traveled far before the young man was able to find and
follow them.
And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
And hearts are brave again, and arms are strong.
The girls in the choir sang on, untroubled by a doubt:--
But lo, there breaks a yet more glorious day;
The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
The King of glory passes on His way.
They marched outside following the flower-banked casket into the little
cemetery, and Queed stood with bared head like the others, watching the
committal of dust unto dust. In the forefront of the mournful gathering,
nearest the grave's edge, there stood three women heavily swathed in
black. Through all the rite now, suppressed sobbing ran like a motif.
Soon fell upon all ears the saddest of all sounds, the pitiless thud of
the first earth upon the stiff lid. On the other side of the irregular
circle, Queed saw the coarse red motorman; tears were rolling down his
fat cheeks; but never noticing them he was singing loudly, far off the
key, from the book the black-gloved hand had given Queed.
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