dying man, his small sparkling eyes only (but dulled now by coming death)
showing above the swathings. I was about to kneel down by the bed-side
to confess him, when one of those--things--called out (now they had just
been whispering and sniggering together, but the priest in his righteous,
brave scorn would not look at them; the humbled author, half fearful,
half trustful, dared not) so one called out:

"Sir Priest, for three days our master has spoken no articulate word; you
must pass over all particulars; ask for a sign only."

Such a strange ghastly suspicion flashed across me just then; but I
choked it, and asked the dying man if he repented of his sins, and if he
believed all that was necessary to salvation, and, if so, to make a sign,
if he were able: the man moved a little and groaned; so I took it for a
sign, as he was clearly incapable either of speaking or moving, and
accordingly began the service for the administration of the sacraments;
and as I began, those behind me and through all the rooms (I know it was
through all of them) began to move about, in a bewildering dance-like
motion, mazy and intricate; yes, and presently music struck up through
all those rooms, music and singing, lively and gay; many of the tunes I
had heard before (in the nineteenth century) I could have sworn to half a
dozen of the polkas.

The rooms grew fuller and fuller of people; they passed thick and fast
between the rooms, and the hangings were continually rustling; one fat
old man with a big belly crept under the bed where I was, and wheezed and
chuckled there, laughing and talking to one who stooped down and lifted
up the hangings to look at him.

Still more and more people talking and singing and laughing and twirling