The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. Very few survived her trials. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. “She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s. White said. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger.
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