"The--the--girl is not dead; there is color--" A fierce oath from the lips of both men simultaneously cut his words short.
"The girl is dead," exclaimed the man who had so far done the talking.
"That is blood you see on her face.

She had a hemorrhage.

Go on with your work, you fool--or, here! give me the spade.

I will make a short shift of it." But as the stranger uttered these words, stepping quickly forward to put the thought into execution, a sudden thought, like an inspiration, occurred to the ancient grave digger.
"No--no--I will finish my work," he muttered.

"I--I--can do it best, as I--I--understand it--and--and--you, would not." "Make all haste, then; it is growing bitter cold.