A year
later, to the day, the excuse he'd waited for came. The soldier's armour
was dirty, on review; Clovis had the right as a general to reproach and
punish him, so snatching the man's battle-axe, the king crushed in the
soldier's head. "I do to you with the same weapon what you did to the
gold vase at Soissons!" he said.
It wasn't until we had seen everything, and had spent over an hour
looking at the martyred cathedral, from every point of view, inside and
out, that Mother Beckett confessed her suffering. "Oh, Molly!" she
gasped, leaning on my arm, "I'm so glad there's only _one_ tower, and
not two! That is, I'm glad, as it was always like that."
"Why," I exclaimed, "how odd of you, dearest! I know it's considered one
of the best cathedrals in France, though it isn't a museum of sculpture,
like Rheims. But the single tower worries me, it looks so unfinished.
_I'm_ not glad there's only one!"
"You would be if you felt like I do," she moaned. "If there was another
tower, we'd have to spend double time looking at it, and in five minutes
more I should have to faint! Oh no, I've stood everything so far, not to
disappoint any one, but I _couldn't_ see another tower!"
With that, she did faint, or nearly, then came to herself, and
apologized for bothering us! Father Beckett hardly spoke, but his face
was gray-white with fear, and he held the fragile creature in his arms
as if she were his last link with the life of this world.
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