We went into the courtyard. It was raining now, the night
quite dark, and a gusty wind blowing. We crossed the yard to where a
broad flower-bed was planted. Here a grave, wide and deep enough for
a human being, had been dug. A lantern, in which the flame blew
fitfully, was set on the huge heap of mould and sent an uncertain
light over the grave. I got down into it, and laid Nous gently,
still wrapped in the coat, on the damp earth, with a heavy heart.
I vaulted out of the grave and stood, while the man filled it in,
listening to the steady fall of the earth and its dull thud, thud.
The rain came down steadily, and the man looked at me and said--
"Monsieur will be drenched through, he had better go within."
"No, no," I said; "continue."
And I waited while he dug away the mound, and the chilly wind
rattled the branches of a tree near, and the rain soaked with a
monotonous splashing into the earth, and the light flickered, barely
strong enough to show me the man's working figure. When he had
finished, when the grave was filled and the upper soil smoothed
over, I turned and, mentally and physically chilled, went slowly
back into the hotel. As I entered the gas-lit corridor I saw a
figure there at the door. It was Howard. He was still in the hotel,
and though I detested his proximity even, I had no influence on his
departure.
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