In despair Crayshaw thought it best to answer him.
“They ain’t a-burying nobody, but they’re a-taking somebody out of his coffin. Yes, there they come and the coffin with them. That’s the coffin that holds little Sir Piers Pelham—bless him! Poor little chap! They’re taking it out, and they’re going to open it.”
“But I’m not there!” cried Piers.
His voice rang out very high and clear. It startled old Crayshaw, who turned round and looked at him for the first time attentively. The old man’s face turned white, he clapped his two hands to his ears, uttered a loud and terrified shriek, and fled from the spot as if he were pursued by a thousand demons.
Piers did not take any notice of him. One of the doctors who was bending over the coffin glanced up with an annoyed expression of face.
“Go away, little boy,” he said; and then he gave directions to one of the men beside him. The man stepped forward.
“But I’m not going away!” said little Piers. “This is my own churchyard and my own chapel. What are you doing here? You are to go away—I’m not going.”
The man was about to reply angrily, and to push the little intruder from the scene, when suddenly there was a fresh commotion. Some steps were heard approaching—eager steps, the steps of women. Piers burst from the restraining hand of the man. He had the boy in his grip, but the child wriggled away as if he were a little eel.
“Barbara!” cried Piers. “Barbara!” He rushed down the path. A lady with starry brown eyes was coming up, a lady with a white face, and a world of indescribable sorrow in her eyes. She was accompanied by some one else, but at her Piers had no time to glance. He flung his arms round Barbara’s neck.
“What does it mean?” he cried. “What does it mean? Here I am. I’m back again. I’m alive and well. What does it mean, dear, darling, darling Barbara?”