and overhead the blackness of pine-woods and the broken
brightness of the moon. Our way led down into a hollow of the land; and
as we descended, the sounds diminished and had almost died away. Upon
the other slope it was more open, only dotted with a few pines, and
several vast and scattered rocks that made inky shadows in the
moonlight. Here the sounds began to reach us more distinctly; we could
now perceive the ring of iron, and more exactly estimate the furious
degree of haste with which the digger plied his instrument. As we neared
the top of the ascent, a bird or two winged aloft and hovered darkly in
the moonlight; and the next moment we were gazing through a fringe of
trees upon a singular picture.

A narrow plateau, overlooked by the white mountains, and encompassed
nearer hand by woods, lay bare to the strong radiance of the moon. Rough
goods, such as make the wealth of foresters, were sprinkled here and
there upon the ground in meaningless disarray. About the midst, a tent
stood, silvered with frost: the door open, gaping on the black interior.
At the one end of this small stage lay what seemed the tattered remnants
of a man. Without doubt we had arrived upon the scene of Harris's
encampment; there were the goods scattered in the panic of flight; it
was in yon tent the Master breathed his last; and the frozen carrion
that lay before us was the body of the drunken shoemaker. It was always
moving to come upon the theatre of any tragic incident; to come upon it
after so many days, and to find it (in the seclusion of a desert) still
unchanged, must have impressed the mind of the most careless. And yet it
was not that which struck us into pillars of stone; but the sight (which
yet we had been half expecting) of Secundra ankle-deep in the grave of
his late master. He had cast the main part of his raiment by, yet his
frail arms and shoulders glistered in the moonlight with a copious
sweat; his face was contracted with anxiety and expectation; his blows
resounded on the grave, as thick as sobs; and behind him, strangely
deformed and ink-black upon the frosty ground, the creature's shadow
repeated and parodied his swift gesticulations. Some night-birds arose
from the boughs upon our coming, and then settled back; but Secundra,
absorbed in his toil, heard or heeded not at all.

I heard Mountain whisper to Sir William, "Good God! it's the grave! He's
digging him up!" It was what we had all guessed, and yet to hear it put