I turn my back to the tempest, still directing the light across the hole.

My companion digs on unconcernedly; he is living two thousand years ago, and despises things of the moment as dreams.

But at last he is fairly beaten, and standing up beside me looks round on what he has done.

The rays of the lantern pass over the trench to the tall skeleton stretched upon the grass on the other side.

The beating rain has washed the bones clean and smooth, and the forehead, cheek-bones, and two-and-thirty teeth of the skull glisten in the candle-shine as they lie.
This storm, like the first, is of the nature of a squall, and it ends as abruptly as the other.