The cart was backed to the margin, the body slung off the platform and dumped into the grave with an irreverent roughness.

A sharpened stake had hitherto served it for a pillow.

It was now withdrawn, held in its place by several volunteers, and a fellow with a heavy mallet (the sound of which still haunts me at night) drove it home through the bosom of the corpse.
The hole was filled with quicklime, and the bystanders, as if relieved of some oppression, broke at once into a sound of whispered speech.
My shirt stuck to me, my heart had almost ceased beating, and I found my tongue with difficulty.
'I beg your pardon,' I gasped to a neighbour, 'what is this?
what has he done?
is it allowed ?' 'Why, where do you come from ?' replied the man.
'I am a traveller, sir,' said I, 'and a total stranger in this part of the country.

I had lost my way when I saw your torches, and came by chance on this--this incredible scene.

Who was the man ?' 'A suicide,' said he.