And then I knew that I had been holding converse, face to face, with Death; and icy fear shook me, and I strove in vain to hide my eyes from everything. And when I awoke in the morning there was a gray trunk of an alder tree, just George Bowring's height and size, on the other side of the water, so that I could have no doubt that himself had been there.
After a search of about three hours we found the body of my dear friend in a deep black pool of the Aydyr—not the first hole below the place in which he sat down to his luncheon, but nearly a hundred yards farther down, where a bold cliff jutted out and bent the water scornfully. Our quarrymen would not search this pool until the sunlight fell on it, because it was a place of dread with a legend hovering over it. “The Giant's Tombstone” was the name of the crag that overhung it; and the story was that the giant Idris, when he grew worn out with age, chose this rock out of many others near the top of the mountain, and laid it under his arm and came down here to drink of the Aydyr. He drank the Aydyr dry because he was feverish and flushed with age; and he set down the crag in a hole he had scooped with the palms of his hands for more water; and then he lay down on his back, and Death (who never could reach to his knee when he stood) took advantage of his posture to drive home the javelin. And thus he lay dead, with the crag for his headstone, and the weight of his corpse sank a grave for itself in the channel of the river, and the toes of his boots are still to be seen after less than a mile of the valley.
Under this headstone of Idris lay the body of George Bowring, fair and comely, with the clothes all perfect, and even the light cap still on the head. And as we laid it upon the grass, reverently and carefully, the face, although it could smile no more, still appeared to wear a smile, as if the new world were its home, and death a mere trouble left far behind. Even the eyes were open, and their expression was not of fright or pain, but pleasant and bright, with a look of interest such as a man pays to his food.
“Stand back, all of you!” I said sternly; “none shall examine him but myself. Now all of you note what I find here.”
I searched all his pockets, one after another; and tears came to my eyes again as I counted not less than eleven of them, for I thought of the fuss we used to make with the Shrewsbury tailor about them. There was something in every pocket, but nothing of any importance at present, except his purse and a letter from his wife, for which he had walked to Dolgelly and back on the last entire day of his life.
“It is a hopeless mystery!” I exclaimed aloud, as the Welshmen gazed with superstitious awe and doubt. “He is dead as if struck by lightning, but there was no storm in the valley!”
“No, no, sure enough; no storm was there. But it is plain to see what has killed him!” This was Evan Peters, the quarryman, and I glanced at him very suspiciously. “Iss, sure, plain enough,” said another; and then they all broke into Welsh, with much gesticulation; and “e-ah, e-ah,” and “otty, otty,” and “hanool, hanool,” were the sounds they made—at least to an ignorant English ear.
“What do you mean, you fools?” I asked, being vexed at their offhand way of settling things so far beyond them. “Can you pretend to say what it was?”
“Indeed, then, and indeed, my gentleman, it is no use to talk no more. It was the Caroline Morgan.”
“Which is the nearest house?” I asked, for I saw that some of them were already girding up their loins to fly, at the mere sound of that fearful name; for the cholera morbus had scared the whole country; and if one were to fly, all the rest would follow, as swiftly as mountain sheep go. “Be quick to the nearest house, my friends, and we will send for the doctor.”