The Thames embankment could be seen,
but, though a garden of not fifty yards in width separated the
building from the embankment, the fog was thick enough to make the
people as indistinct as though they had been half a mile away. Beyond
the embankment the grey wall of fog shut out everything but an
occasional gull which flitted out for a moment and disappeared again.
The embankment road was lined with Highland soldiers in khaki
greatcoats and Scotch caps, drawn up in quarter companies, while on
either side of the road stood a solid black wall of humanity--waiting,
some with umbrellas up to protect them from the fine drizzle. Not a
hundred yards away Cleopatra's needle stood like a tall sentinel in
the mist, and one wondered what tales of battle and heroic deeds it
could tell, if it could speak. One could imagine that during the long
ages it must have witnessed other magnificent funerals of kings and
heroes, and smiled, perhaps, at the brevity of human life.
The silence was broken by the long roll of kettledrums, and the
strains of Chopin's funeral march floated to us through the heavy air;
sadder than ever before they seemed to me, and yet, too, more
dignified than ever before. Then along the embankment, past
Cleopatra's needle, the head of the procession burst up through the
fog as though coming out of the ground.
The band came first, followed by the London Scottish with arms
reversed, the brass butts of the guns visible before the soldiers
themselves, making a curious reflection in the fog.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61