With the first stroke of the clock there came up a wayfarer. Some traveller who had missed his train at Bromsgrove, and had to walk the distance. He advanced with a jaunty though somewhat tired step along the highway, and did not discern the crowd until close upon them, for the road wound just there. To say that he was astonished would be saying little. He stood still, and stared, and rubbed his eyes, almost questioning whether the unusual scene could be real.
"What on earth's the matter?" demanded he of someone near him. "What does it all mean?"
The man addressed turned at the question, and recognized the speaker for Mr. Richard Jones, an inhabitant of the town.
At least he was nearly sure it was he, but he knew him by sight but slightly. If it was Mr. Jones, why this same crowd and commotion had to do with him, in one sense of the word. Its cause had a great deal to do with his home.
"Can't you answer a body?" continued Mr. Jones, finding he got no reply.
"Hush!" breathed the other man. "Look there."
Along the middle of the turnpike-road, on their way from the city, came eight men with measured and even tread, bearing a coffin on their shoulders. It was covered with what looked like a black cloth shawl, whose woollen fringe was clearly discernible in the moonlight. Mr. Jones had halted at the turning up to the churchyard, where he first saw the assembly of people; consequently the men bearing the coffin, whose heavy tread and otherwise silent presence seemed to exhale a kind of unpleasant thrill, passed round by Mr. Jones, nearly touching him.
"What is it?" he repeated in a few seconds, nearly wild to have his understanding enlightened.
"Don't you see what it is?--a coffin. It's going to be buried in that there cross grave up yonder."
"But who is in the coffin?"