The red earth of the newly heaped grave was all but hidden with flowers, and a huge wreath had been hung upon the white stone; it had slipped down beneath the name of the dead girl, and hiding the rest of the inscription showed the one word “Martha” garlanded with flowers. Might one not dream that in the meadows of Elysium the young girl bedecked herself with fadeless flowers against the coming of her lover? Beside the two graves stood a group of clean-shaved, well-dressed men. Accustomed to mime in all guises, real grief found them awkward but sincere.
As Sidney and Vashti drew near they looked at the pair with interest. Vashti’s striking personality had been singled out immediately from the throng of villagers at the funeral, but the eyes, accustomed to scan audiences, knew that Sidney had not been present.
“A friend of his?” asked a pale, handsome-faced man, with iron grey hair.
“No—but I have heard his story,” said Sidney, in his soft, gentle voice.
“Well—he only asked for one thing—to be buried beside her,” said the actor; then looking at the others he took off his hat, and in a voice, remembered yet for its melody in two continents, he repeated the matchless dirge,
“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter rages.”
Slowly, solemnly the beautiful words were uttered.
Their music mingled with the melody of his perfect voice, making them more than eloquent.