Part 45

‘Wait a minute,’ Dan whispered. ‘She’s going to do the trumpety one. It takes all the wind you can pump. It’s in Latin, sir.’

‘There is no other tongue,’ the Archbishop answered.

‘It’s not a real hymn,’ Una explained. ‘She does it as a treat after her exercises. She isn’t a real organist, you know. She just comes down here sometimes, from the Albert Hall.’

‘Oh, what a miracle of a voice!’ said the Archbishop.

It rang out suddenly from a dark arch of lonely noises--every word spoken to the very end:

‘Dies Irae, dies illa, Solvet saeclum in favilla, Teste David cum Sibylla.’ The Archbishop caught his breath and moved forward. The music carried on by itself a while.

‘Now it’s calling all the light out of the windows,’ Una whispered to Dan.

‘I think it’s more like a horse neighing in battle,’ he whispered back. The voice continued:

‘Tuba mirum spargens sonum Per sepulchre regionum.’

Deeper and deeper the organ dived down, but far below its deepest note they heard Puck’s voice joining in the last line:

‘Coget omnes ante thronum.’

As they looked in wonder, for it sounded like the dull jar of one of the very pillars shifting, the little fellow turned and went out through the south door.

‘Now’s the sorrowful part, but it’s very beautiful.’ Una found herself speaking to the empty chair in front of her.

‘What are you doing that for?’ Dan said behind her. ‘You spoke so politely too.’

‘I don’t know... I thought--’ said Una. ‘Funny!’

‘’Tisn’t. It’s the part you like best,’ Dan grunted.

The music had turned soft--full of little sounds that chased each other on wings across the broad gentle flood of the main tune. But the voice was ten times lovelier than the music.

‘Recordare Jesu pie, Quod sum causa Tuae viae, Ne me perdas illi die!’

There was no more. They moved out into the centre aisle.

‘That you?’ the Lady called as she shut the lid. ‘I thought I heard you, and I played it on purpose.’

‘Thank you awfully,’ said Dan. ‘We hoped you would, so we waited. Come on, Una, it’s pretty nearly dinner-time.’

Song of the Red War-Boat

Shove off from the wharf-edge! Steady! Watch for a smooth! Give way! If she feels the lop already She’ll stand on her head in the bay. It’s ebb--it’s dusk--it’s blowing, The shoals are a mile of white, But (snatch her along!) we’re going To find our master tonight.

For we hold that in all disaster Of shipwreck, storm, or sword, A man must stand by his master When once he had pledged his word!

Raging seas have we rowed in, But we seldom saw them thus; Our master is angry with Odin-- Odin is angry with us! Heavy odds have we taken, But never before such odds. The Gods know they are forsaken, We must risk the wrath of the Gods!

Over the crest she flies from, Into its hollow she drops, Crouches and clears her eyes from The wind-torn breaker-tops, Ere out on the shrieking shoulder Of a hill-high surge she drives. Meet her! Meet her and hold her! Pull for your scoundrel lives!

The thunder bellow and clamour The harm that they mean to do; There goes Thor’s Own Hammer Cracking the dark in two!

Close! But the blow has missed her, Here comes the wind of the blow! Row or the squall’ll twist her Broadside on to it!---Row!