'Now, perhaps,' he continued, clapping his hands to shake off the earth
that soiled them, 'you won't come roaming here any more, like a heathen;
the dead will pull your feet at night if you go walking over them
again.'

Vincent, who had laughed at seeing the nest dive into the stream, looked
round him and shrugged his shoulders like one of strong mind.

'Oh, I'm not afraid,' he said. 'Dead folk don't stir.'

The graveyard, in truth, was not a place to inspire fear. It was a
barren piece of ground whose narrow paths were smothered by rank weeds.
Here and there the soil was bossy with mounds. A single tombstone, that
of Abbe Caffin, brand-new and upright, could be perceived in the centre
of the ground. Save this, all around there were only broken fragments of
crosses, withered tufts of box, and old slabs split and moss-eaten.
There were not two burials a year. Death seemed to make no dwelling in
that waste spot, whither La Teuse came every evening to fill her apron
with grass for Desiree's rabbits. A gigantic cypress tree, standing near
the gate, alone cast shadow upon the desert field. This cypress, a
landmark visible for nine miles around, was known to the whole
countryside as the Solitaire.

'It's full of lizards,' added Vincent, looking at the cracks of the
church-wall. 'One could have a fine lark--'

But he sprang out with a bound on seeing the Brother lift his foot. The
latter proceeded to call the priest's attention to the dilapidated state
of the gate, which was not only eaten up with rust, but had one hinge