Червона літера
The Procession
Aloudorlowexpressionofanguish—thewhisper,ortheshriek,asitmightbeconceived,ofsufferinghumanity,thattouchedasensibilityineverybosom!Attimesthisdeepstrainofpathoswasallthatcouldbeheard,andscarcelyheardsighingamidadesolatesilence.Butevenwhentheminister’svoicegrewhighandcommanding—whenitgushedirrepressiblyupward—whenitassumeditsutmostbreadthandpower,sooverfillingthechurchastoburstitswaythroughthesolidwalls,anddiffuseitselfintheopenair—still,iftheauditorlistenedintently,andforthepurpose,hecoulddetectthesamecryofpain.Whatwasit?Thecomplaintofahumanheart,sorrow-laden,perchanceguilty,tellingitssecret,whetherofguiltorsorrow,tothegreatheartofmankind;beseechingitssympathyorforgiveness—ateverymoment—ineachaccent—andneverinvain!Itwasthisprofoundandcontinualundertonethatgavetheclergymanhismostappropriatepower.
Duringallthistime,Hesterstood,statue-like,atthefootofthescaffold.Iftheminister’svoicehadnotkeptherthere,therewould,nevertheless,havebeenaninevitablemagnetisminthatspot,whenceshedatedthefirsthourofherlifeofignominy.Therewasasensewithinher—tooill-definedtobemadeathought,butweighingheavilyonhermind—thatherwholeorboflife,bothbeforeandafter,wasconnectedwiththisspot,aswiththeonepointthatgaveitunity.
LittlePearl,meanwhile,hadquittedhermother’sside,andwasplayingatherownwillaboutthemarket-place.
