And yet while they faded that happened which froze and bit each separate word into his memory, to lose distinctness only when death should interfere, stop the active brain, and wipe the slate.
For while the procession halted and broke up its formation for a moment on the brow of the cliff, a woman came running into the torchlight.
"Is my Joey there?
Where's he _to_, anybody?
Hev anyone seen my Joey ?" It was Lizzie Pezzack, panting and bareheaded, with a scared face.
"He's lame--you'd know en.

Have 'ee got en there?
He's wandered off!" "Hush up, woman," said a bearer.

"Don't keep such a pore!" "The cheeld's right enough somewheres," said another.

"'Tis a man's body we've got.

Stand out of the way, for shame!" But Lizzie, who as a rule shrank away from men and kept herself hidden, pressed nearer, turning her tragical face upon each in turn.
Her eyes met George's, but she appealed to him as to the others.
"He's wandered off.