“The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.”
And the vision of his dream rose up in his brooding mind once more; and again he seemed to behold that poor girl before him, arisen from the dead, and the glory in her eyes as, with bowed head and outstretched arms like the Angel of Pity, she gazed sweetly, but sadly, down upon him from amidst that great, shining, billowy cloud of light.
And then—his brain sank into a deep oblivion of dreamy, chaotic thought, through which the curate’s sonorous intonation, sounding far off and indistinct, penetrated at intervals.
“We therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
At the well-remembered words mechanically, from long practise, he stooped and cast a handful of earth into the grave. And, the dull thud of its fall upon her coffin, was on his very heart.
The service ended, but still the scarlet-coated figure remained there motionless, with bowed head, as of one in a dream. He was aroused from his reverie by Musgrave touching him on the arm.
“Come, old man!” said the doctor gently, “it’s all over now; let’s go. Are you going to wait for the—other?...”
“Yes,” responded Ellis in a strained, unnatural voice, without raising his eyes.
Drearily, without another word being uttered on either side the whole way back, they returned to the detachment and, sitting down in the little office, filled their pipes and smoked moodily awhile, amidst an embarrassing silence, which was finally broken by Musgrave.
“Well, Ellis, old man,” he said quietly, “seems we’ve come through rather a sad passage.”