ays with him, there was another current of

impression that never ceased to run, all through the night. He was

on his way to dig some one out of a grave.

Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves

before him was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of

the night did not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of

five-and-forty by years, and they differed principally in the

passions they expressed, and in the ghastliness of their worn and

wasted state. Pride, contempt, defiance, stubbornness,

submission, lamentation, succeeded one another; so did varieties

of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands and figures.

But the face was in the main one face, and every head was

prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger

inquired of this spectre:

“Buried how long?”

The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”

“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”

“Long ago.”

“You know that you are recalled to life?”

“They tell me so.”

“I hope you care to live?”

“I can’t say.”

“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”

The answers to this question were various and contradictory.

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Sometimes the broken reply was. “Wait! It would kill me if I saw

her too soon.” Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears,