The rain had worn its edges, and moss was
slowly eating into it. Nevertheless, the following fragment of an
inscription, cut on the side which was sinking into the ground, might
still have been distinguished in the moonlight: "_Here lieth . . . Marie
. . . died . . ._" The finger of time had effaced the rest.
When the young man had concealed his gun he again listened attentively,
and still hearing nothing, resolved to climb upon the stone. The wall
being low, he was able to rest his elbows on the coping. He could,
however, perceive nothing except a flood of light beyond the row of
mulberry-trees skirting the wall. The flat ground of the Jas-Meiffren
spread out under the moon like an immense sheet of unbleached linen;
a hundred yards away the farmhouse and its outbuildings formed a still
whiter patch. The young man was still gazing anxiously in that direction
when, suddenly, one of the town clocks slowly and solemnly struck seven.
He counted the strokes, and then jumped down, apparently surprised and
relieved.
He seated himself on the tombstone, like one who is prepared to
wait some considerable time. And for about half an hour he remained
motionless and deep in thought, apparently quite unconscious of the
cold, while his eyes gazed fixedly at a mass of shadow. He had placed
himself in a dark corner, but the beams of the rising moon had gradually
reached him, and at last his head was in the full light.
He was a strong, sturdy-looking lad, with a fine mouth, and soft
delicate skin that bespoke youthfulness.
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