Gathering, gathering along the narrow street, came a hollow,

measured sound; now forcing itself on their attention. Many

voices were hushed and low: many steps were heard not moving

onwards, at least not with any rapidity or steadiness of motion,

but as if circling round one spot. Yes, there was one distinct,

slow tramp of feet, which made itself a clear path through the

air, and reached their ears; the measured laboured walk of men

carrying a heavy burden. They were all drawn towards the

house-door by some irresistible impulse; impelled thither--not by

a poor curiosity, but as if by some solemn blast.

Six men walked in the middle of the road, three of them being

policemen. They carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon their

shoulders, on which lay some dead human creature; and from each

side of the door there were constant droppings. All the street

turned out to see, and, seeing, to accompany the procession, each

one questioning the bearers, who answered almost reluctantly at

last, so often had they told the tale.

'We found him i' th' brook in the field beyond there.' 'Th' brook!--why there's not water enough to drown him!' 'He was a determined chap. He lay with his face downwards. He was

sick enough o' living, choose what cause he had for it.' Higgins crept up to Margaret's side, and said in a weak piping

kind of voice: 'It's not John Boucher? He had na spunk enough.

Sure! It's not John Boucher! Why, they are a' looking this way!

Listen! I've a singing in my head, and I cannot hear.' They put the door down carefully upon the stones, and all might

see the poor drowned wretch--his glassy eyes, one half-open,

staring right upwards to the sky. Owing to the position in which

he had been found lying, his face was swollen and discoloured

besides, his skin was stained by the water in the brook, which

had been used for dyeing purposes. The fore part of his head was

bald; but the hair grew thin and long behind, and every separate

lock was a conduit for water. Through all these disfigurements,

Margaret recognised John Boucher. It seemed to her so

sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted, agonised

face, that, by a flash of instinct, she went forwards and softly

covered the dead man's countenance with her handkerchief. The

eyes that saw her do this followed her, as she turned away from

her pious office, and were thus led to the place where Nicholas

Higgins stood, like one rooted to the spot. The men spoke

together, and then one of them came up to Higgins, who would have

fain shrunk back into his house.




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