Four men stand near the dark cavity. Their feet are imbedded in the gravel that has been freshly thrown out, and it rattles back again into the grave, with an unearthly echo.
The men each hold on upon a strap. They let it slip—you can distinctly hear it—through their hands. Down—down—down!
The coffin has gone down beneath the edge of the grave. It grates, and rubs, and rumbles against the rough sides of its cell, and then sinks into the silence and darkness for ever.
You hear sobs—quick, convulsive, heart-rending sobs. They are full to bursting with distress. They come from the lips of her mother—her sister—her brother.
You cannot bear it yourself. Oh, for only a single tear! Oh, for but a single heaving of the breast!
—But no—but no. No one to whom to carry all your griefs now. They must flow back upon your heart again. They must scorch it with their boiling lava. They press even now so hard upon you, that you feel fearfully self-possessed. It is almost impossible to bear it all.
Young girls step timidly up to the edge of the dark grave—snatch a look at the coffin that holds all your own heart—and cautiously throw roses down upon it.
The sight goes to your very heart. But no tears yet. What a relief would they not be?
And now you clench your hands tightly together, and bite your lip in fresh agony. You spit blood already from your mouth.
Only a prayer—a slow, solemn prayer from the reverend man of God—and all is over. The dense throng begin to turn away.