“Would they have me make of a charnel-house my bed-chamber?” I cried aloud. “I will not. I will lie abroad on the heath; it cannot be colder there!”
“I have just told you that the dead are there also,
‘Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
In Vallombrosa,’”
said the librarian.
“I will NOT,” I cried again; and in the compassing dark, the two gleamed out like spectres that waited on the dead; neither answered me; each stood still and sad, and looked at the other.
“Be of good comfort; we watch the flock of the great shepherd,” said the sexton to his wife.
Then he turned to me.
“Didst thou not find the air of the place pure and sweet when thou enteredst it?” he asked.
“Yes; but oh, so cold!” I answered.
“Then know,” he returned, and his voice was stern, “that thou who callest thyself alive, hast brought into this chamber the odours of death, and its air will not be wholesome for the sleepers until thou art gone from it!”