“Ah,” said Margaret. “And his wife would like that?”
“Yes. Ah, his wife, sir. Poor child. She was only married six weeks.”
“It is sad for her. He did not suffer much, father?”
“Ill for four days. But yesterday he was better. Then the fever grew again. As it does, sir, in some cases. The blood was before the dawn. Like a child, sir. And his eyes turned upon the Cross.”
“Then I will dig the grave here,” Margaret said. “This will be east and west by my watch.” He scratched a narrow oblong with the point of the spade.
“I’ll dig the grave here,” he said.
“Not you. Not in the sun,” the priest said. “There is very much sickness. Your men will dig.”
“I shall dig,” he answered. He felt that he was burying a part of Olivia. He would do her that service. He would make a grave for that unworthy part of her. That act of his should be a part of his penance towards the dead man’s ghost.
“It is very bad to dig this ground,” the priest said. “It is dust of the dead. We do not dig deep except for an Excellency. You see. The rats. Why toil, since God will bring them together at the Resurrection?”
“This is an evil country,” Margaret answered, driving the spade into the earth.