"Housen, and castles, and kings decay;
But the biggins we big last till doomus-day."
Some more coarse and less intelligible jargon followed, which it is not needful that we repeat. Again he threw forth a burden of more than ordinary bulk, resting from his labours during the following more elaborate ditty:—
"Dark and dreary though it be,
Thou shalt all its terrors dree:
Dungeon dark, where none complain,
Nor 'scape to tell its woe and pain."
Again he bent him to his task, and again the earth went rolling forth, accompanied by something like the following verse:—
"Though I dig for him that be living yet,
O'er this narrow gulf he shall never get;
The mouth gapes wide that 'Enough' ne'er cries;
Each clod that I fling on his bosom lies;
In darkness and coldness it rests on thee,
With the last stroke that falls thy doom shall be!"
With increasing energy did he work on, as though to accelerate the fate of his victim. Marian felt herself on the brink of the tomb, and its icy touch was perceptible through every part of her frame.
The mystic chant was again audible, and more distinct than before—
"The charm is wound, and this stroke shall be
The last, when it falls, of his destiny;
Save he sell to another his birthright here,
Then the buyer shall buy both grave and bier."
Uttering this malediction, he scrambled out of the grave, and suddenly stood before the astonished maiden, who shuddered as she beheld the unshapely outline of a form which she instantly recognised.
He did not seem a whit surprised or startled, though he could not have been aware previously that a listener was nigh.