A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signedwith a woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the house,and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows,cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs,creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face.A glaze1 of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind howlingthrough bent2 branches. A wind which never dies down. Howling, wailing3.The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids are frozen openand the eyes glitter.The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding and crunching4.Overhead, branches writhing5, winding6, interlacing, unwinding, scattering;tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging branches apart,drawing them together, whispering and whining7 among them. A waning,lobsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream of pebbles9 and earthand the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed10 againinto the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and horses.Squeaking11 of wheels."Whoa! Ready, Jim?""All ready."Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin12."Give us the stake, Jim. Now."Pound! Pound!"He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground."An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him.He is a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway,and writhe13, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bulletin his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground.Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body,and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stickheld him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green.Pink and white and frail14 like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valleyat her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the younggreen leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaisescarcely turning, her face, rippling15 like grain a-blowing,under her puce-coloured bonnet16; and burning beside her, flaming withinhis correct blue coat and brass17 buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the sun?The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a moan.The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over,tearing their stems. There is a shower of young leaves,and a sudden-sprung gale18 wails19 in the trees.The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking -- rocking, and all the branchesare knocking -- knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, red plate,the branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers20, for the green foliageis a lowering wave surging to smother21 her. But she sees nothing.The stake holds f
