A blast of trumpets.... The cortège moves....
Leading the way come the priests chanting the ritual ... the ritual of the dead.... Then eight officers, the pall-bearers of honor. Then the soldiers.... At last, the hearse....
Oh, careful, careful, please! The springs of the hearse creak over the rough pavement! Oh, careful, careful, please! You are jostling me too hard, too hard! It is a poor miserable corpse you are carrying there.... It must not be treated so! Look out! Don’t you see there, under the hearse? The coffin is leaking! Black drops are oozing out and falling one by one upon the pavement.
* * * * * * * * *
The crowd moves off behind the procession.
Now they have turned the corner ... on the way to the church ... and thence to the cemetery. They seem to be hurrying ... yes ... because night is falling fast....
One by one the windows close. The street is empty now.
* * * * * * * * *
I remained where I was, my back still propped against the wall. My weariness overcame me suddenly. My legs gave way at the knees. I slipped slowly to the ground.
Yet the determination to go on arose within me. I got to my feet, somehow. I crossed the street toward my house! Toward my house—of course! Where else should I go, except to my house?