The cure of the church was reading his breviary, walking up and down a gravel-path that parted the rows of graves.

In the course of my wanderings I had learned to speak French as fluently as most Englishmen, and when the priest came near me I said a few words in praise of the view, and complimented him on the neatness and prettiness of the churchyard.

He answered with great politeness, and we got into conversation together immediately.
As we strolled along the gravel-walk, my attention was attracted by one of the graves standing apart from the rest.

The cross at the head of it differed remarkably, in some points of appearance, from the crosses on the other graves.

While all the rest had garlands hung on them, this one cross was quite bare; and, more extraordinary still, no name was inscribed on it.
The priest, observing that I stopped to look at the grave, shook his head and sighed.
"A countryman of yours is buried there," he said.