The red glow of a dying sun framed in masses of angry storm-cloud; a group of dark-clad figures standing in a roughly-walled enclosure, in their midst a white-clothed priest. Around, the sunlit veldt and mountain mocking the shortness of human life, their own tenure, though but a span, an immortality compared with that of mankind.
"I am the resurrection and the life." The high-pitched voice rose on the evening air, chanting words that had been millions of times repeated, yet always sounding new, for of death they form the song, and neither Azrael nor Eros can ever weary humanity. Apart from the throng, close to the grave's brink, a man was standing. Dully the words beat on his brain, but conveyed no meaning, for physical endurance had reached its limit, and understanding for the time was dead.
Vaguely he listened, wondering what it all might mean, now and again raising his eyes to the chasm's far side, where stood the chanting priest, and beyond him the group of black-clothed figures. What was he doing here, what were these people doing here, and this dark hole at his feet, what was its meaning? Vacantly he looked around, seeking for something to lay hold of, some landmark to link the present with the past, but in vain, all were but as symbols on an ever-flying wheel, seen for a second, gone, seen again and lost once more.
Then for a space the whirling circle stopped, and the figures came to a rest and stood steady before his eyes. Ah, there were two he recognised, a man and a woman, the former rigid-faced and stern, the latter weeping. Yes, he knew them; they were Richard Selbourne and Mary, but why was she crying? There was no reason for it that he could see. He looked hard at them, trying to attract their notice, but in vain, almost it seemed as though they would not see. Ah last Richard looked up, met his eyes full, and without recognition lowered his own again. "Cut me, intentionally too, what, in God's name for, what have I done? Confound that other fellow too, with them, staring like that; what the devil does he find in me, a stranger, to interest him? Never takes his eyes off me, damn him! Looks like a doctor, well, if you are, go back to your pills, you fool, and leave me alone. I want none of your drugs."
"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" Ah, he recognised that. They were burying someone then, and this hole at his feet was a grave. But whose, and what, had it to do with him? Faintly curious, he moved forward and peered down. Yes, there was a coffin, a name on it too, if he could but read:
STARA.
Then back rushed remembrance; he knew, and laughed aloud. Everybody looked up; the man with the deep-set eyes made a half step forward; Mary clutched her husband's arm; and the priest, scandalised, stopped, and then went hurriedly on: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes dust to dust."
Graeme's head nodded slowly in approval, for here were words of sense at last, little as the mumbling fool that uttered them knew it. To him they were but a formula, the fine words spoken by the hero of some stage drama, the finale bringing down the curtain to a burst of hysterical applause. He alone knew how true they were, and that in death lay no sting and in the grave no victory, but defeat, and in an hour from now the proof of that truth would be given him.
The throng melted away, and moved slowly homeward across the veldt. Two men approached, spade in hand, glanced at Graeme, and then set swiftly to work. The dull thud of earth on wood sounded from below, then earth on other earth, till the yawning chasm had gone and only a brown scar remained.
One final stamp on the loosened soil, and they too, shouldering their tools, went homeward, and Graeme was alone in the fast-falling night. The sun had long since died—to be born again in another world—and over his fiery western grave a pall of blue storm-cloud hung, rapidly rising and spreading over the heavens. The wind moaned fretfully, and the low mutter of thunder came from the distant mountains.