'dropt like a hot potato,' and the grave-digger betook himself to his
spade so nimbly.

'Oh! Uncle Charles,' I said, taking his hand, and leading him towards
the foot of the grave; 'such a wonderful skull has come up! It is shot
through with a bullet, and cracked with a poker besides.'

''Tis thrue for him, your raverence; he was murthered twiste over,
whoever he was--rest his sowl;' and the sexton, who had nearly completed
his work, got out of the grave again, with a demure activity, and
raising the brown relic with great reverence, out of regard for my good
uncle, he turned it about slowly before the eyes of the curate, who
scrutinised it, from a little distance, with a sort of melancholy
horror.

'Yes, Lemuel,' said my uncle, still holding my hand, ''twas undoubtedly
a murder; ay, indeed! He sustained two heavy blows, beside that gunshot
through the head.'

''Twasn't gunshot, Sir; why the hole 'id take in a grape-shot,' said an
old fellow, just from behind my uncle, in a pensioner's cocked hat,
leggings, and long old-world red frock-coat, speaking with a harsh reedy
voice, and a grim sort of reserved smile.

I moved a little aside, with a sort of thrill, to give him freer access
to my uncle, in the hope that he might, perhaps, throw a light upon the
history of this remarkable memorial. The old fellow had a rat-like gray
eye--the other was hid under a black patch--and there was a deep red
scar across his forehead, slanting from the patch that covered the
extinguished orb. His face was purplish, the tinge deepening towards the