s of Satan keep his lance in play,
Pity and innocence his heart at rest.

The day of the funeral was one of blazing sunshine. "One of your
days," Gilbert would have said to Frances. Grey days were his, when
nature's colours he said were brightest against her more sombre
background, sunny days were hers for she loved a blue blazing sky.
The little church near the railway was filled to overflowing by his
friends from London, from all over England, from France even and from
America. All Beaconsfield wanted to honour him, so the funeral
procession instead of taking the direct route passed through the old
town where he had so often sat in the barber's shop and chatted with
his fellow citizens. At Top Meadow we gathered to talk. Frances a few
of us saw for a little while in her own room. With that utter
self-forgetfulness that was hers she said to her sister-in-law, "It
was so much worse for you. You had Cecil for such a short time."

Later Mgr. Knox preached in Westminster Cathedral to a crowd far
vaster. Both Frances and Cardinal Hinsley received telegrams from
Cardinal Pacelli (now Pope Pius XII). To Cardinal Hinsley he cabled
"Holy Father deeply grieved death Mr. Gilbert Keith Chesterton
devoted son Holy Church gifted Defender of the Catholic Faith. His
Holiness offers paternal sympathy people of England assures prayers
dear departed, bestows Apostolic Benediction." This telegram was read
to the vast crowd in the Cathedral and found an echo in the hearts of
his fellow countrymen.

Hugh Kingsmill wrote to Cyril Clemens: "My friend Hesketh Pearson was
staying with me when I read of Chesterton's death. I told him of it
through the bathroom door, and he sent up a hollow groan which must
have echoed that morning all over England." It was with reason that
the Pope offered his sympathy not to Catholics alone, but to all the
people of England. To the policeman who said at the funeral, "We'd
all have been here if we could have got off duty. He was a grand
man." To the man at the _Times_ office who broke in on the
announcement of his death, "Good God. That isn't _our_ Chesterton, is
it?" To the barber who had to leave his customer unshaved that he
might talk to Edward Macdonald. To all of us, his friends, on whom
the loss lay almost unbearably heavy. To those for whom his presence
would have pierced and lightened even the dark shadow of the war. To
all the people of England.

Once more a Pope had bestowed upon an Englishman