"Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay."
The formal service was soon ended, and after the congregation had filed out, a little knot of men from Chesby farms poised the casket on their shoulders and paced slowly after Mr. Penfellow and the verger down the broad, winding stairs to the pillared crypt. At the east end, beneath the altar, the verger unlocked a massy oaken door and behind that an iron grate. There was a minute's delay while he lit tall candles, and then the little procession marched on into the last resting-place of the Chesbys.
It was an octagonal chamber, Tudor in style and extraordinarily spacious, the groined roof springing lightly from slender pillars. At the far end was a simple altar, and all around the other segments of the octagon were ledges in two tiers. At intervals over the floor space were tombs and sarcophagi. The flickering candles brought out an occasional inscription.
"Hugh James Cuthbert................twenty-eighth Baron Chesby."
"Claudia Anne, Lady Chesby, aetat 34, beloved.......... James, twenty-first................"
On several coffins reposing on the side ledges there were the moldering remnants of old flags. On one lay an officer's cocked hat and sword, tarnished and covered with dust.
Mr. Penfellow was bowing to Hugh.
"The—ah—space next your grandfather, I suppose?"
Hugh nodded dumbly, and the men carrying the casket shifted it gently into the niche adjoining the twenty-eighth baron's. Once they had set it in place, we were at some difficulty to distinguish it from those above and on either side of it. They were all exactly alike. And how different, probably, had been the men and women they held!
Hugh stumbled forward, and knelt beneath his uncle's casket. Nikka, beside me, breathed hastily in my ear: