THE OLD MAN.
No, Martha, stay here…. Sit beside your sister, on this old stone bench, against the wall of the house, and do not look…. You are too young; you never could forget…. You cannot know what a face is like at the moment when death passes before its eyes…. There will be cries, perhaps…. Do not turn round…. Perhaps there will be nothing…. Above all, do not turn if you hear nothing…. One does not know the course of grief beforehand…. A few little deep-rooted sobs, and that is all, usually…. I do not know myself what I may do when I shall hear them…. That belongs no longer to this life…. Kiss me, my child, before I go away….
[The murmur of prayers has gradually drawn nearer. Part of the crowd invades the garden. Dull steps heard, running, and low voices speaking.]
THE STRANGER (to the crowd).
Stay here;… do not go near the windows…. Where is she?…
A PEASANT.
Who?
THE STRANGER.
The rest … the bearers?…