He _had_ seen better days: he had toiled cheerfully
through the day, and sat down to a comfortable evening meal. The wine-cup
had gone round; and the voice of laughter had been heard at his table for
many a year, and yet here he had crept to die like a beggar! I looked at
the flock bed, and felt my heart grow sick within me. The corpse of a man,
apparently about sixty, lay stretched upon it, and on his hollow and
emaciated features the hand of death had printed the ravages of many days.
The veins had ceased to give even the appearance of life to the
discoloured skin; the eyelids were deep sunken, and the whole countenance
was (and none but those accustomed to gaze on the face of the dead can
understand me) utterly expressionless. But if a sight like this was
sickening and horrible, what shall I say of the miserable being to whom a
temporary oblivion was giving strength for renewed agony? He had
apparently been sitting at the foot of the corpse, and, as the torpor of
heavy slumber stole over him, had sunk forward, his hand still retaining
the hand of the dead man. His face was hid; but his figure, and the thick
curls of dark hair, bespoke early youth. I judged him at most, to be
two-and-twenty. I began my task of measuring the body, and few can tell
the shudder which thrilled my frame as the carpenter's rule passed those
locked hands--the vain effort of the living still to claim kindred with
the dead! It was over, and I stole from the room, cautiously and silently
as I entered.
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