Jacob walked beside Adam at the horse's head. It was a bad day with him and the passion of the weather had found an echo in his spirit. The rain began to fall and Winter drew a sack from the cart and swung it over his shoulders.
"You'd best to run into Billy Marydrew's till the scat's passed, else you'll get wet," he said.
But the other heeded not the rain.
"A pity it isn't my coffin instead of her stone you've got here," he said. "I'm very wishful to creep beside her. No harm in that—eh?"
"There's every harm in wishing to be dead afore your time, Jacob; but none I reckon in sharing her grave when the day's work is ended."
"Truth's truth and time can't hide truth, whatever else it hides. I killed her, Adam, I killed her as stone-dead as if I'd taken down my gun and shot her."
"No, no, Bullstone, you mustn't say anything like that. You well know it's wrong. In one way we all help to kill our fellow-creatures I reckon; and they help to kill us. 'Tis a mystery of nature. We wear away at each other, like the stone on the sea-shore; we be thrown to grind and drive at each other, not for evil intent, but because we can't help it. We don't know what we're doing, or who we're hurting half our time—no more than frightened sheep jumping on each other's backs, for fear of the dog behind them."
"That's all wind in the trees to me. I wasn't blind: I knew what I was doing. I don't forget how I hurt you neither, and took good years off your life."
"Leave it—leave it and work. Think twice before you give up work and go to Huntingdon."
"My work's done, and badly done. Don't you tell me not to get away to peace if I'm to live."