He carried him out by starlight, and buried him under the palmetto. It was hard work digging alone. He could not make a very deep grave, and he had no coffin. When the earth was stamped down, he felt extremely weary and weak. He fell down beside his shovel and pick to rest, and lay there in the night till he felt stronger. It was damp and dark. Shadows like clouds hung over the distant outline of the swamp.
The Sunday bells in the town had ceased. There were no sounds but the cries of a few lonely birds and wild creatures of the night, whose names he did not know. This little fact added to his sense of solitude.
He thought at first he would get up and walk back to the city in the dark. An intense and passionate longing seized him to be among living men. He took a few steps down the road. The unwholesome dust blew up through the dark against his face. He found himself so tired that he concluded to go back to the hut. He would sleep, and start in the morning with the break of the dawn. He should be glad to see the faces of his kind again, even though the stir of welcome and the light of trust were gone out of them for him. They lived, they breathed, they spoke. He was tired of death and solitude.
He groped back into the hut. The oil was low, and he could not relight the lamp. He threw himself in the dark upon his bed.
He slept until late in the morning, heavily. When he waked, the birds were shrill in the hot air, and the sun glared in.
“I will go now,” he said, aloud. “I am glad I can go,” and crept to his feet.
He took two steps—staggered—and fell back. He lay for some moments, stricken more with astonishment than alarm. His first words were:
“Lord God! After all—after all I’ve gone through—Lord God Almighty, if You’ll believe it—I’ve got it!”
This was on Wednesday morning. Night fell, but no one came. Thursday—but outside the hut no step stirred the parched, white dust. Friday—Saturday—no voice but his own moaning broke upon the sick man’s straining ear.