The priest’s voice continued the recitation of the burial service and the robin sang at the edge of the dim wood.  Down the narrow strip of rank burial ground a low wind cried, and the light, losing its glow in the western sky, threw a grey pall on the grass.  And under the influence of the moment a little memory of people I had known and forgotten went across my mind, a memory that seemed to stir in the low wind, a memory of people who had at the last got their white, clean coffin and their rest on a pile of golden earth, people who had gone like our brother in the deal boards....  There was the man, the scholar, who had taught his school, who had an intelligence, who could talk, who, perhaps, could have written only—.  The wind sobbed down the narrow strip of ground....  He had made his battle, indeed, a long-drawn-out battle, for he had only given way step by step, gradually but inexorably yielding ground to the thing that was hunting him out of civilised life.  He had gone from his school, his home, his friends, fleeing from one miserable refuge to another in the miserable country town.  Eventually he had passed in through the gates of the workhouse.  It was all very vivid now—­his attempts to get back to the life he had known, like a man struggling in the quicksands.  There were the little spurts back to the town, the well-shaped head, the face which still held some remembrance of its distinction and its manhood erect over the quaking, broken frame; that splendid head like a noble piece of sculpture on the summit of a crumbling ruin.  Forth he would come, the flicker of resistance, a pallid battle-light in the eyes, a vessel that had been all but wrecked once more standing up the harbour to meet the winds that had driven it from the seas—­and after a little battle once more taking in the sheets and crawling back to the anchorage of the dark workhouse, there to suffer in the old way, in secret to curse, to pray, to despair, to hope, to contrive some little repairs to the broken physique in order that there might be yet another journey into waters that were getting more and more shadowy.  And the day came when the only journey that could be made was a shuffle to the gate, the haunted eyes staring into a world which was a nightmare of regrets.  How terrible was the pathos of that life, that struggle, that tragedy, how poignant its memory while the robin sang at the edge of the dim wood!...  And there was that red-haired, defiant young man with the build of an athlete, the eyes of an animal.  How bravely he could sing up the same road to the dark house!  It was to him as the burrow is to the rabbit.  He would come out to nibble at the regular and lawful intervals, and having nibbled return to sleep and shout and fight for his “rights” in the dark house.  And once, on a spring day, he had come out with a companion, a pale woman in a thin shawl and a drab skirt, and they had taken to the roads together, himself swinging his ashplant, his stride and manner carrying the illusion