ahead of him. He laughed at his fear, but he walked faster than usual.
At length he reached the prison yard. He looked timidly toward the place of execution of the morning. He thought the man was buried and all was over. But he saw the body gleaming through the darkness. And when the wind touched it, the gallows moaned and moaned. And the wind carried the sound on and on. The helper ran without looking up, but as he neared the gallows his steps were heavier and heavier. The old shuddering swept over his body. At last, trembling, he entered the room of the overseer. It was light there. At least there was a human being there. The superintendent did not look up; he was thoughtful and both were silent.
“Now you can sleep,” remarked the helper in order to break the oppressive silence. “Now the chains do not rattle.”
“Hark! Don’t you hear that?” Outside, above the sound of the wind, came plainly the creaking of the gallows. It was a sad, monotonous sound, a gigantic slumber song over the body of the heroic dead.
“Why is he not buried?”
“That is what I have called you for. To-morrow morning you are to take him down and bury him—because you were his friend.”
The helper was silent. What an ironic play of wit was this. Anyway he will not make any noise, thought the helper.
The superintendent dropped his head; his eyes were in the shadow. Slowly the helper got upon his feet,
