They are all strong-nerved, courageous men; yet they are all very pale, as they bend to their task.
A few moments, and Mr. O'Meara utters a sharp exclamation, drops his board, and draws back. They have unearthed a shoulder, an arm, a clenched hand.
A moment more, and Clifford Heath, too, withdraws from his task, the cold sweat standing thick upon his temples. They are uncovering a head, a head that is shrouded with something white.
To Mr. O'Meara, to Clifford Heath, the moment is one of intense unmixed horror. To the men who still bend to their work, the horror has its mixture of curiosity. Whose is the face they are about to look upon?
Instinctively the two more refined men draw farther back, instinctively the others bend closer.
Swiftly they work. The last bit of earth is removed from the face; carefully they draw away a large white handkerchief, then utter a cry of horror.
"My God!" cries one, "it is John Burrill."