Between the candelabra
and at the head and foot of the coffin stood six gigantic soldiers of
the guard, rigid as statues, with bowed heads and arms reversed.
Only their eyes moved, and I dare say that I stared at them in
something like terror. Certainly a religious awe held me as the
pressure of the sightseers carried me forth from the doors again and
into the street, where I wedged myself into the crowd, and waited for
the procession. By this time a fog had rolled up from the river, and
the foot-guards who lined the road had begun to light their torches.
Behind them were drawn up the horse-guards, their officers erect in
saddle, with naked sabres and heavy scarves of crape. There amid the
sounds of minute guns, and of bells tolling I must have waited a full
hour before the procession came by--the fifes, the muffled drums, the
yeomen of the guard staggering with the great coffin, the
pall-bearers and peers walking two and two, with pages bearing their
heavy trains. All this I watched as it went by, and with a mind so
shaken that a hand from behind had plucked twice or thrice at my
elbow before I was aware that any one claimed my attention.
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