There was nothing in my aching
head but a few words, some such stupid sentences as, "It's done," or,
"It's accomplished" (in Polish it is much shorter), or something of the
sort, repeating itself endlessly. The long procession moved out of the
narrow street, down a long street, past the Gothic front of St. Mary's
under its unequal towers, towards the Florian Gate.
In the moonlight-flooded silence of the old town of glorious tombs and
tragic memories, I could see again the small boy of that day following a
hearse; a space kept clear in which I walked alone, conscious of an
enormous following, the clumsy swaying of the tall black machine, the
chanting of the surpliced clergy at the head, the flames of tapers
passing under the low archway of the gate, the rows of bared heads on the
pavements with fixed, serious eyes. Half the population had turned out
on that fine May afternoon. They had not come to honour a great
achievement, or even some splendid failure. The dead and they were
victims alike of an unrelenting destiny which cut them off from every
path of merit and glory. They had come only to render homage to the
ardent fidelity of the man whose life had been a fearless confession in
word and deed of a creed which the simplest heart in that crowd could
feel and understand.
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