Back of
the house were some fields, and a path leading into clumps of trees.
At some thirty rods distant from the tavern, nigh one of those clumps,
the larger tree whereof was a willow, Margery stopp'd, and pausing a
minute, while we came up, spoke in tones calm and low:
"Ninon is there!"
She pointed downward with her finger. Great God! There was a _grave_,
new made, and with the sods loosely join'd, and a rough brown stone at
each extremity! Some earth yet lay upon the grass near by. If we had
look'd, we might have seen the resting-place of the widow's son,
Ninon's brother--for it was close at hand. But amid the whole scene
our eyes took in nothing except that horrible covering of death--the
oven-shaped mound. My sight seemed to waver, my head felt dizzy, and
a feeling of deadly sickness came over me. I heard a stifled
exclamation, and looking round, saw Frank Brown leaning against the
nearest tree, great sweat upon his forehead, and his cheeks bloodless
as chalk. Wheaton gave way to his agony more fully than ever I had
known a man before; he had fallen--sobbing like a child, and wringing
his hands. It is impossible to describe the suddenness and fearfulness
of the sickening truth that came upon us like a stroke of thunder.
Of all of us, my brother Matthew neither shed tears, or turned pale,
or fainted, or exposed any other evidence of inward depth of pain. His
quiet, pleasant voice was indeed a tone lower, but it was that which
recall'd us, after the lapse of many long minutes, to ourselves.
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