The next day the Sabbath bell from the ivied tower of Chapelizod Church
called all good church-folk round to their pews and seats. Sturk's place
was empty--already it knew him no more--and Mrs. Sturk was absent; but
the little file of children, on whom the neighbours looked with an awful
and a tender curiosity, was there. Lord Townshend, too, was in the
viceregal seat, with gentlemen of his household behind, splendid in star
and peruke, and eyed over their prayer-books by many inquisitive
Christians. Nutter's little pew, under the gallery, was void like
Sturk's. These sudden blanks were eloquent, and many, as from time to
time the dismal gap opened silent before their eyes, felt their thoughts
wander and lead them away in a strange and dismal dance, among the
nodding hawthorns in the Butcher's Wood, amidst the damps of night,
where Sturk lay in his leggings, and powder and blood, and the beetle
droned by unheeding, and no one saw him save the guilty eyes that
gleamed back as the shadowy shape stole swiftly away among the trees.
Dr. Walsingham's sermon had reference to the two-fold tragedy of the
week, Nutter's supposed death by drowning, and the murder of Sturk.
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