'What interested me most, I think,' said Lawford haltingly, 'was
this.' He pointed with his stick to the grave at his feet.

'Ah, yes, Sabathier's,' said the stranger; 'I know his peculiar
history almost by heart.'

Lawford found himself staring with unusual concentration into the
rather long and pale face. 'Not, I suppose,' he resumed faintly--
'not, I suppose, beyond what's there.'

His companion leant his hand on the old stooping tombstone. 'Well,
you know, there's a good deal there'--he stooped over--'if you
read between the lines. Even if you don't.'

'A suicide,' said Lawford, under his breath.

'Yes, a suicide; that's why our Christian countrymen have buried
him outside of the fold. Dead or alive, they try to keep the wolf
out.'

'Is this, then, unconsecrated ground?' said Lawford.

'Haven't you noticed,' drawled the other, 'how green the grass
grows down here, and how very sharp are poor old Sabathier's
thorns? Besides, he was a stranger, and they--kept him out.'

'But, surely,' said Lawford, 'was it so entirely a matter of
choice--the laws of the Church? If he did kill himself, he did.'

The stranger turned with a little shrug. 'I don't suppose it's a