CHAPTER VII. THE BURIAL OF THE WOLF.
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THE wolves followed their dead companion
to the grave, with solemn ceremony.
The scene of sepulture was a wild spot
on the very brink of the sea, and the fishermen
had enclosed the space by piling up
masses of rock, which from the channel resembled
rough defences against cannon.
Up the rugged path which led to this burial
place they now bore the dead wolf, the rude
coffin enclosing his remains carried on the
shoulders of his brethren; and reaching the
wall, they lifted the coffin over, and carried it
to the side of the grave.
Then the ceremony of interring a member of
the fraternity of the wolves began. No priest
of any denomination was present, and there was
something heathenish in the strange rites.
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Hands were joined around the grave, the
wolves circled it slowly, beating the ground
with monotonous feet; then a wild and melancholy
chant rose, and was carried away by the
wind.
This lasted for half an hour. Then the hands
were unlocked and the coffin lowered into the
grave amid deep murmurs.
“Who is this we be a burying?” came in
hoarse tones from the gigantic Goliath.
“A wolf!” was the muffled response from the
voices of all present.
Goliath extended his hand solemnly.
“So mote it be!” he thundered; “and cursed
be the man who moves the bones of a wolf!”
As he spoke he took a handful of earth and
threw it on the coffin. The men did likewise,
each in turn, and the grave was speedily filled.
Then the wild-looking figures joined hands
and encircled the grave once more, beat the
ground with their feet, and repeated their
monotonous chant.
It ended at last. They left the burial ground,
and slowly wound down the hill toward the
coast. As they disappeared, night descended,
and the moon rose, throwing her pallid light on
land and sea.
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Such had been the wolf's burial.
An hour past midnight, and a figure leaped
the wall, followed in a moment by another.
The moon revealed the faces of these men,
who carried picks and spades. They were the
two rough personages whom Earle and the
gypsy had encountered that night bearing the
corpse into Westbrooke Hall.
“This is the place, mate,” said one of them;
“it is easily found.”
“By the fresh earth—you are right.”
“And now to work; this job is dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“This is one of the wolves, and I'm told they
are sworn to put a knife into whoever disturbs
one of 'em.”
“Ough! I never heard that.”
“It makes the job worth five guineas more.”
“Exactly.”
And without further words they proceeded
vigorously to work.
In an hour the coffin responded to the blow
of the pick.
“Take care, mate!” said one, as the dull
sound was heard.
“Right.”
And proceeding more carefully, they soon
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unearthed the long box without noise, and
wrenching off the lid, dragged forth the dead
body.
“He's a rough-looking one,” muttered the
man who lifted the corpse, “and his neck is all
swollen.”
“On account of the dog.”
“Hurry up, mate.”
And laying the body on the earth, they proceeded
rapidly to fill up the grave again.
This was soon accomplished, and they then
lifted the body over the fence, and bore it on
their shoulders down the rough path leading
toward the interior.
In a clump of bushes a small vehicle was
waiting. Into this they pushed the corpse as if
it were the body of an animal.
“Come on, mate; I don't like this job. Seems
to me they are a watching of us.”
And the speaker hastily got into the wagon.
The other followed, and in a business-like way
took his seat on the corpse.
Then the single horse was whipped up, the
vehicle rolled away, and night swallowed it.
The grave of the wolf had been rifled. Would
the curse descend?
-- 228 -- p517-233
Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1871], Out of the foam: a novel. (Carleton, New York) [word count] [eaf517T].
