“Where is the burial ground?”
He raised his hand in benediction over the corpse, then led Margaret out of the room. West followed them, reverent and awed, speaking in a hushed voice. The priest led them by a back way to the patio, thence by a postern to a side street, a good two hundred yards from the house. The burial-ground was hedged with stone, over which some creepers had grown. Little green lizards were darting among the creepers. They glittered like cut glass. The gate of the cemetery swung open on hinges of raw hide. When they entered, some large rats scuttled to their burrows among the graves.
“Much sickness here,” said the priest. “It is not good to dig deep in the ground.”
“I must dig this grave deep,” Margaret answered. “Look at the rats.”
“They are large,” the priest said. “Much sickness in this poor town.”
“Where can I find a spade?” Margaret asked.
“Who knows?” said the priest. “You will tell your men to find one? Ah?”
“I must do this myself,” he answered.
“But your men on the wall,” said the priest. “And your ship there. Ah?”
Margaret looked towards the west, over the low sea-wall. Some of his men were spiking the guns on the platform. He could hear the click of the malls upon the spikes, as they snapped the soft iron flush with the gun. Beyond them, very far away, were the ships; the tide and the land-wind had set them out to sea again.