flowers; how he listened for the dear
footsteps--listened with his green leaf-shaped, little head raised
high among the leaves. But his playmate was far away and came no
more to feed him from his basin of bread and milk, and caress his
cold, smooth coils with his warm, soft, little hand.

Close after the boy on the ram marched four other little boys on foot,
holding up long silver trumpets in readiness to blow. One of them
stopped, and putting his trumpet down close to Martin's ear, puffed
out his little, round cheeks, and blew a blast that made him jump.
Laughing at the joke, they passed on, and were succeeded by others
and still others, singing, shouting, twanging their instruments, and
some of them stopping for a few moments to look at Martin or play
some pretty little trick on him.

But now all at once Martin ceased to listen or even look at them,
for something new and different was coming, something strange which
made him curious and afraid at the same time. It was a sound, very
deep and solemn, of men's voices singing together a song that was
like a dirge and coming nearer and nearer, and it was like the
coming of a storm with wind and rain and thunder. Soon he could see
them marching through the great crowd of people--old men moving in a
slow procession, and they had pale dark faces and their hair and
long beards were whiter than snow, and their long flowing robes were
of the silvery dark colour of a rain-cloud. Then he saw that the
leaders of the procession were followed by others who carried a
couch of mother-o'-pearl resting on their shoulders, that on the
couch reposed a pale sweet-looking youth dressed in silk clothes of
a delicate rose-colour. He also wore crimson shoes, and a
tight-fitting apple-green skull cap, which made his head look very
small. His eyes were ruby-red, and he had a long slender nose like a
snipe's bill, only broad and flattened at the tip. And then Martin
saw that he was wounded, for he had one white hand pressed to his
side and it was stained with blood, and drops of blood were
trickling through his fingers.

He was troubled at the sight, and he gazed at him, and listened to
the words of that solemn song the old men were singing but could not
understand them. Not because he was a child, for no person, however
aged and wise and filled with all learning he might be, could have
understood that strange song about Wonderful Life and Wonderful Death.
Yet there was something in it too whi