A bullet through his heart at dawn.

On　　the table a letter signed　　with a woman's name.

A wind that goes howling round the　　house,　　and weeping as in shame.

Cold November dawn peeping through　　the windows,　　cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs,　　creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face.

　　A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes.

Wind　　howling　　through bent branches.

A wind which never dies down.

Howling,　　wailing.

　　The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight.

The lids are　　frozen open　　and the eyes glitter.

　　The thudding of a pick on hard earth.

A spade grinding　　and crunching.

　　Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering;　　tortured twinings, tossings, creakings.

Wind flinging　　branches apart,　　drawing them together, whispering and whining among them.

A　　waning,　　lobsided moon cutting through black clouds.

A stream　　of pebbles and earth　　and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed　　again　　into the black earth.

Tramping of feet.

Men　　and horses.

　　Squeaking of wheels.

　　"Whoa!

Ready, Jim?

"　　"All ready.

"　　Something falls, settles, is still.

Suicides　　have no coffin.

　　"Give us the stake, Jim.

Now.

"　　Pound!

Pound!

　　"He'll never walk.

Nailed to the ground.

"　　An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the　　roots will hold him.

　　He is a part of the earth now, clay to clay.

Overhead　　the branches sway,　　and writhe, and twist in the wind.

He'll never walk with　　a bullet　　in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground.

　　Six months he lay still.

Six months.

And the　　water welled up in his body,　　and soft blue spots chequered it.

He lay still, for the　　ash stick　　held him in place.

Six months!

Then her face　　came out of a mist of green.

　　Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley　　at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her.

Under　　the young　　green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of　　the chaise　　scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing,　　under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming　　within　　his correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone.

What　　has dimmed the sun?

　　The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes　　a moan.

　　The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over,　　tearing their stems.

There is a shower of young leaves,　　and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees.

　　The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking -- rocking,　　and all the branches　　are knocking -- knocking.

The sun in the sky is a flat,　　red plate,　　the branches creak and grate.

She screams and cowers,　　for the green foliage　　is a lowering wave surging to smother her.

But she sees　　nothing.

　　The stake holds firm.

The body writhes, the body squirms.

　　The blue spots widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well　　in the deep, black ground.

It holds the body in the still,　　black ground.

　　Two years!

The body has been in the ground two years.

It　　is worn away;　　it is clay to clay.

Where the heart moulders, a greenish　　dust, the stake　　is thrust.

Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly　　jewelled　　with stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises.

　　Down the road to Tilbury, silence -- and the slow flapping of large　　leaves.

　　Down the road to Sutton, silence -- and the darkness of heavy-foliaged　　trees.

　　Down the road to Wayfleet, silence -- and the whirring scrape of　　insects　　in the branches.

Down the road to Edgarstown, silence　　-- and stars like　　stepping-stones in a pathway overhead.

It is very quiet　　at the cross-roads,　　and the sign-board points the way down the four roads, endlessly　　points　　the way where nobody wishes to go.

　　A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton.

Shaking　　the wide,　　still leaves as he goes under them.

Striking sparks with　　his iron shoes;　　silencing the katydids.

Dr.

Morgan riding to a child-birth　　over Tilbury way;　　riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son.

One　　o'clock from　　Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars!

And　　a breeze　　all of a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up　　and down.

　　Dr.

Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and　　curves away　　from the sign-post.

An oath -- spurs -- a blurring of　　grey mist.

　　A quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing　　down the Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him.

　　The stake has wrenched, the stake has started,　　the body, flesh from flesh,　　has parted.

But the bones hold tight, socket and ball,　　and clamping them down　　in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged through ribs and　　spine.

　　The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but the stake holds them　　still　　in line.

The breeze goes down, and the round stars shine,　　for the stake　　holds the fleshless bones in line.

　　Twenty years now!

Twenty long years!

The body　　has powdered itself away;　　it is clay to clay.

It is brown earth mingled with brown　　earth.

Only flaky　　bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not one bone　　is knit　　to another.

The stake is there too, rotted through, but　　upright still,　　and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a straight line.

　　Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow　　stillness is on the trees.

　　The leaves hang drooping, wan.

The four roads point four　　yellow ways,　　saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze.

A little swirl　　of dust　　blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to　　do more;　　it ceases, and the dust settles down.

A little whirl　　of wind　　comes up Tilbury road.

It brings a sound of wheels and　　feet.

　　The wind reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post.

　　Wind again, wheels and feet louder.

Wind again -- again　　-- again.

　　A drop of rain, flat into the dust.

Drop!

-- Drop!

Thick　　heavy raindrops,　　and a shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their　　leaves.

　　Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain,　　up Tilbury road,　　comes the procession.

A funeral procession, bound for　　the graveyard　　at Wayfleet.

Feet and wheels -- feet and wheels.

And　　among them　　one who is carried.

　　The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull.

There　　is a quiver　　through the rotted stake.

Then stake and bones fall together　　in a little puffing of dust.

　　Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down　　behind the procession,　　now well along the Wayfleet road.

　　He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind.

His　　fingers blow out like smoke,　　his head ripples in the gale.

Under the sign-post, in　　the pouring rain,　　he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down　　the Wayfleet road.

Then swiftly he streams after it.

It　　flickers　　among the trees.

He licks out and winds about them.

Over,　　under,　　blown, contorted.

Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following　　smoke.

　　There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear,　　and after it laughter -- laughter -- laughter, skirling up to the　　black sky.

　　Lightning jags over the funeral procession.

A heavy clap　　of thunder.

　　Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels.

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