“And he said, While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept: for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live?
“But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not come to me.”
The wind had gradually increased in violence, and now there came a strong gust and a sudden clash of rain against the iron roof. The man ceased reading, and looked up with a light of wildness in his eyes. Then he flung down the book, started up, and ran around to the other side of the bed, where the cot was. He looked into the cot, and a long cry of agony broke from him when he saw that it was empty. He staggered and would have fallen but for the woman, who supported him for a moment, and then let him sink back on the bed. Another fit of coughing came on, after which white foam, slightly tinged with blood, appeared on his lips. The rain, with which hail was now mixed, swept down on the roof in a roaring torrent.
Suddenly the man sprang up, and before the woman could restrain him, had reached the passage leading to the front door.
“Come, come,” he shouted, “he is out in the cold and wet, and we are in here warm and dry. Let me go; I will take his plaid to put over him. You do not care, or you would not try to stop me. Let me go.”
All this time he was struggling to escape from the woman’s clasping arms, and at length he succeeded. He rushed back into the bedroom, seized the plaid from where it hung on the cot, and again made for the door. The woman followed him with an overcoat, and caught him as he was turning the handle.
“Wait one moment, Fred,” she said in a low-toned voice, which had the immediate effect of calming him, “we will go together. Come back with me until I get my cloak.”
He followed her back to the bedroom, and there walked impatiently about, struggling to get into the overcoat, and coughing incessantly. She put on a waterproof ulster, and then opened a little jewel-case which stood on the dressing-table. From this she took a thick, glossy lock of dark, curly hair, which she hid in the bosom of her dress.
The woman took the man’s arm, and the two walked out into the wild night. It was not dark, for the moon was nearly full, but swift on the wings of the screaming gale low, combing clouds were hurrying over the land. From these heavy showers of piercing sleet fell. Each shower only lasted for a few minutes, but the intervals between them were hardly longer. As the storm grew, the duration of the showers increased, whilst that of the intervals diminished. As yet, how ever, the moon shone out brightly after each shower.
The graveyard was on the spur of a mountain which overhung the river about a mile below the village. Thither the man and the woman wended. Fortunately the wind was behind them. It was this circumstance that made their progress possible. They never could have faced the howling storm. Faster and faster they staggered onward, the woman supporting the man by means of her left arm, which she had passed around his body, and holding his left in her right hand. They both coughed dreadfully, but the paroxysms of the man were the worse.