Musgrove, Ramsay, and the woodman, retired from the apartment at the same moment; and the horses being ready at the door, the retreating beat of the hoofs upon the turf gave notice to the in-dwellers that the four men had set forward on their journey.
CHAPTER XLVI.
A RUSTIC FUNERAL.
How glumly sounds yon dirgy song;
Night ravens flap the wing.—Burger's Leonora.
By eleven o'clock at night, Butler and the party from Ramsay's arrived at the woodman's cabin. Winter and his comrades had been busy in making preparations for the funeral. The body had been laid out upon a table, a sheet thrown over it, and a pine torch blazed from the chimney wall close by, and flung its broad, red glare over the apartment. An elderly female, the wife of the woodman, and two or three children, sat quietly in the room. The small detachment of troopers loitered around the corpse, walking with stealthy pace across the floor, and now and then adjusting such matters of detail in the arrangements for the interment as required their attention. A rude coffin, hastily constructed of such materials as were at hand, was deposited near the table. A solemn silence prevailed, which no less consisted with the gloom of the occasion than with the late hour of the night.
When the newly arrived party had dismounted and entered the apartment, a short salutation, in suppressed tones, was exchanged, and without further delay, the whole company set themselves to the melancholy duty that was before them. David Ramsay approached the body, and, turning the sheet down from the face, stood gazing on the features of his son. There was a settled frown upon his brow that contrasted signally with the composed and tranquil lineaments of the deceased. The father and son presented a strange and remarkable type of life and death—the countenance of the mourner stamped by the agitation of keen, living emotion, and the object mourned bearing the impress of a serene, placid, and passionless repose:—the one a vivid picture of misery, the other a quiet image of happy sleep. David Ramsay bent his looks upon the body for some minutes, without an endeavor to speak, and at last retreated towards the door, striking his hand upon his forehead as he breathed out the ejaculation, "My son, my son, how willingly would I change places with you this night!"
Allen Musgrove was less agitated by the spectacle, and whilst he surveyed the features of the deceased, his lips were moved with the utterance of a short and almost inaudible prayer. Then turning to Drummond, he inquired: "Has the grave been thought of? Who has attended to the preparations?"
"It has been thought of," replied the woodman; "I sent two of my people off to dig it before I went with Major Butler to see David. We have a grave-yard across in the woods, nigh a mile from this, and I thought it best that John Ramsay should be buried there."