’Now backalong to Newton, and by the time we get overright the pa’son’s ‘twill be half after twelve,’ said the leader.

They had not, however, done more than gather up their instruments when the wind brought to their notice the noise of a vehicle rapidly driven up the same lane from Sidlinch which the gravediggers had lately retraced.  To avoid being run over when moving on, they waited till the benighted traveller, whoever he might be, should pass them where they stood in the wider area of the Cross.

In half a minute the light of the lanterns fell upon a hired fly, drawn by a steaming and jaded horse.  It reached the hand-post, when a voice from the inside cried, ‘Stop here!’ The driver pulled rein.  The carriage door was opened from within, and there leapt out a private soldier in the uniform of some line regiment.  He looked around, and was apparently surprised to see the musicians standing there.

‘Have you buried a man here?’ he asked.

’No.  We bain’t Sidlinch folk, thank God; we be Newton choir.  Though a man is just buried here, that’s true; and we’ve raised a carrel over the poor mortal’s natomy.  What—­do my eyes see before me young Luke Holway, that went wi’ his regiment to the East Indies, or do I see his spirit straight from the battlefield?  Be you the son that wrote the letter—­’

‘Don’t—­don’t ask me.  The funeral is over, then?’

’There wer no funeral, in a Christen manner of speaking.  But’s buried, sure enough.  You must have met the men going back in the empty cart.’

‘Like a dog in a ditch, and all through me!’

He remained silent, looking at the grave, and they could not help pitying him.  ‘My friends,’ he said, ’I understand better now.  You have, I suppose, in neighbourly charity, sung peace to his soul?  I thank you, from my heart, for your kind pity.  Yes; I am Sergeant Holway’s miserable son—­I’m the son who has brought about his father’s death, as truly as if I had done it with my own hand!’

’No, no.  Don’t ye take on so, young man.  He’d been naturally low for a good while, off and on, so we hear.’

’We were out in the East when I wrote to him.  Everything had seemed to go wrong with me.  Just after my letter had gone we were ordered home.  That’s how it is you see me here.  As soon as we got into barracks at Casterbridge I heard o’ this . . .  Damn me!  I’ll dare to follow my father, and make away with myself, too.  It is the only thing left to do!’

’Don’t ye be rash, Luke Holway, I say again; but try to make amends by your future life.  And maybe your father will smile a smile down from heaven upon ’ee for ‘t.’

He shook his head.  ‘I don’t know about that!’ he answered bitterly.

’Try and be worthy of your father at his best.  ‘Tis not too late.’

’D’ye think not?  I fancy it is! . . .  Well, I’ll turn it over.  Thank you for your good counsel.  I’ll live for one thing, at any rate.  I’ll move father’s body to a decent Christian churchyard, if I do it with my own hands.  I can’t save his life, but I can give him an honourable grave.  He shan’t lie in this accursed place!’