I am the Resurrection and the Life!
Some men on the natural bridge that made the archway stood outlined against the sky, looking down at the procession. To them the gray robes and black sashes could have been scarcely distinguishable from the dark rocks; but the form of the little maiden thus taking its last journey, and those of the eight bearers, all in white, would shine out of the shadows.
No perfumed garden flowers grew on that high land where they were working when they heard the bells’ à morto; but they gathered snowy daisies, scentless and pure, and made a little drift of their petals; and as the dead approached and passed beneath, they dropped them down in a thin shower as fine as any snow-crystals.
The ravine opened beyond the arch to what had been a torrent-bed circling round a cone-shaped mountain almost destitute of verdure. The whole mass of this mountain was a cemetery. Wide stairs and galleries outside led to iron-bound doors at different heights. One of these doors was open. The procession, crossing a bridge over dry stones, went up the graded ascent to what might be called the second story. Here was a full sunshine. The bearers set their burden down in it before the open door. And here, at last, grief was allowed to have its way for a moment. The mourners fell on their knees beside their dead. A choir of men and women broke out singing:—
“Look thy last upon the sun!
Eyes that scarcely had begun
To distinguish near from far,
Star from lamp, or lamp from star;—
Eyes whose bitterest tears were dew
That a swift smile sparkled through.