“It is nothing, after all—only to give me one look at the dead girl’s face! What could they do to you even if they discovered the truth?” Dalrymple repeated impatiently, and he redoubled his bribe.
The cupidity of the old man made him falter in his opposition, and as a result they entered the vault just as the darkness of night settled over the earth, the sexton carrying a dark lantern, whose glare he turned on the bank of flowers that surrounded the casket, blending their rich, rare odors with the noisome odors of mortality.
The dead are in their silent graves,
And the earth is cold above;
And the living weep and sigh
Over dust that once was love!
They advanced toward the casket, but suddenly each recoiled and glared at the other.
“What was that? It sounded like a stifled moan!” exclaimed Dalrymple, in alarm.
“Nothing but the wind in the trees,” exclaimed the old sexton, recovering himself, and wrenching loose the lid of the casket, sending out gusts of rich fragrance from the covering of tuberoses.
A moment more, and the casket was open, Dalrymple advancing with a quickened heartthrob to gaze on the silent sleeper.