The files of police penetrated into that other darkness which was beyond

the gate; then the bier; then the man with the spade; then the chaplain

with his torch and his book, and the gate closed.

There was nothing left but a haze of light above the wall.

A muttering was heard; then some dull sounds. Doubtless the chaplain and

the gravedigger--the one throwing on the coffin some verses of

Scripture, the other some clods of earth.

The muttering ceased; the heavy sounds ceased. A movement was made. The

torches shone. The wapentake reappeared, holding high his weapon, under

the reopened gate of the cemetery; then the chaplain with his book, and

the gravedigger with his spade. The cortège reappeared without the

coffin.

The files of men crossed over in the same order, with the same

taciturnity, and in the opposite direction. The gate of the cemetery

closed. That of the prison opened. Its sepulchral architecture stood out

against the light. The obscurity of the passage became vaguely visible.

The solid and deep night of the jail was revealed to sight; then the

whole vision disappeared in the depths of shadow.

The knell ceased. All was locked in silence. A sinister incarceration of

shadows.

718

The Man Who Laughs