We went down dismal paths where the night wind sighed a miserere in
the cedars, and things of the dark scurried away with furtive
noises, or flapped ill-omened black wings overhead. In a corner
shaded by cypresses was the Hynds vault, a venerable affair with a
slate roof. Outside, in an inclosed space were some marble-covered
graves and in a corner the simplest of all, one marked "R.H." Emily
slept beside him, and their son beside her. But on the farther side,
next the wall, was room for one more sleeper. And here, while Mr.
Jelnik laid down his burden, Daoud and Achmet began to dig.
She lay there in the ghostly light and shade, so utterly cast aside
and forgotten, so unloved, so unwept, so far removed from every
human tie, that terror and pity filled my heart. While Daoud and
Achmet were making ready her bed, Nicholas Jelnik and I spread out
the length of canvas, and wrapped her securely in the sheet and
blanket. We folded her claws upon the empty breast in which had once
pulsed the passionate heart of Jessamine Hynds, and spread her hair
over what had been her face.
Over in a sheltered spot behind the vault clambered a huge,
overgrown, briery rose, and by some sweet impatience of nature one
shoot had budded before its time.
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