Before that was a little white altar with a priest saying his mass in a whisper.

The high altar was all dark, and behind a screen in the north transept the nuns were singing the Office for the Dead.

King Richard pushed on quickly, the others trooping behind.

There in the midst of all this chilly state, grim and sour-faced, as he had always been, but now as unconcerned as all the dead are, lay the empty majesty of England, careless (as it seemed) of the full majesty; and dead Anjou a stranger to the living.
It was not so altogether, if we are to believe those who saw it.

The hatred of the dead is a fearful thing: of that which followed be God the only judge, and I not even the reporter.