It was his custom to care very tenderly for the bones turned up by the sexton, and to wait with an awful solicitude until, after the reading of the funeral service, he saw them gently replaced, as nearly as might be, in their old bed; and discouraging all idle curiosity or levity respecting them, with a solemn rebuke, which all respected.  Therefore it was, that so soon as he appeared the skull was, in Hibernian phrase, ‘dropt like a hot potato,’ and the grave-digger betook himself to his spade so nimbly.

‘Oh!  Uncle Charles,’ I said, taking his hand, and leading him towards the foot of the grave; ’such a wonderful skull has come up!  It is shot through with a bullet, and cracked with a poker besides.’

’’Tis thrue for him, your raverence; he was murthered twiste over, whoever he was—­rest his sowl;’ and the sexton, who had nearly completed his work, got out of the grave again, with a demure activity, and raising the brown relic with great reverence, out of regard for my good uncle, he turned it about slowly before the eyes of the curate, who scrutinised it, from a little distance, with a sort of melancholy horror.

‘Yes, Lemuel,’ said my uncle, still holding my hand, ’’twas undoubtedly a murder; ay, indeed!  He sustained two heavy blows, beside that gunshot through the head.’

’’Twasn’t gunshot, Sir; why the hole ‘id take in a grape-shot,’ said an old fellow, just from behind my uncle, in a pensioner’s cocked hat, leggings, and long old-world red frock-coat, speaking with a harsh reedy voice, and a grim sort of reserved smile.

I moved a little aside, with a sort of thrill, to give him freer access to my uncle, in the hope that he might, perhaps, throw a light upon the history of this remarkable memorial.  The old fellow had a rat-like gray eye—­the other was hid under a black patch—­and there was a deep red scar across his forehead, slanting from the patch that covered the extinguished orb.  His face was purplish, the tinge deepening towards the lumpish top of his nose, on the side of which stood a big wart, and he carried a great walking-cane over his shoulder, and bore, as it seemed to me, an intimidating, but caricatured resemblance to an old portrait of Oliver Cromwell in my Whig grandfather’s parlour.

‘You don’t think it a bullet wound, Sir?’ said my uncle, mildly, and touching his hat—­for coming of a military stock himself, he always treated an old soldier with uncommon respect.

‘Why, please your raverence,’ replied the man, reciprocating his courtesy; ‘I know it’s not.’

‘And what is it, then, my good man?’ interrogated the sexton, as one in authority, and standing on his own dunghill.

‘The trepan,’ said the fogey, in the tone in which he’d have cried ‘attention’ to a raw recruit, without turning his head, and with a scornful momentary skew-glance from his gray eye.

‘And do you know whose skull that was, Sir?’ asked the curate.