ht of so vast an assemblage and at such an unheard of hour,
the gate-keeper flees in terror. Two or three men enter the house to
emerge with the keys of the great gates and a lamp.

By the fitful rays of this single lamp the movements of the burial party
are conducted.

"Where shall we bury the bodies?" O'Connor asks Trueman.

"As near the gates as possible. I should suggest that the grave be dug
in the circle of the main driveway. The grave of Metz and Purdy will
become one of the most famous in Pennsylvania; it should not be put in
an obscure place."

So the circle is decided upon as the proper place for the common grave
of the millionaire transgressor and the martyr.

As the throng passes through the gates many of the men seize spades and
picks, implements which they know only too well how to use.

It does not take twenty minutes to dig the grave.

When the work is completed, the fact dawns upon the minds of the leaders
that they have neglected to provide a coffin for the bodies.

"What shall we do for coffins?" one of the grave-diggers asks, as he
smooths over the edges of the grave.

"Give them soldiers' burial," suggests one of the bystanders.

"Here, take my shawl," says a shivering woman, as she pulls a thin faded
gray shawl from her shoulders.

Her suggestion is followed by a score of other trembling wretches. The
strangest shroud that ever wrapped mortal remains is used in the
interment.

The bodies of Metz and Purdy are still being carried by the miners. Now
a priest who has accompanied the funeral from the time it crossed the
bridge, is escorted through the crowd to the edge of the grave.

"Will you conduct the burial service over these two bodies?" Trueman
asks of the man of God.

"Neither was prepared for death," protests the priest.

"That is all the more reason for your offering up prayers for their
souls."

"Were they of my faith?" inquires the priest.

"They are dead now and faith has nothing to do with the matter. We want
you as a Christian to pronounce the words of the burial service over
these bodies."

"One of these men was a murderer," further protests the priest.

"Which one?" demands Trueman.

"They say Mete killed German Purdy," is the response.

"And a hundred men within call of us will tell you that Gorman Purdy
killed fifty men in his time," retorts a bystander. These words, so
bitter yet so just, would be cruel indeed for the ears of Ethel Purdy;
but she has lapse