"I hope you will not take it amiss, sir, if I answer that I do not fully comprehend your words."

"Perhaps not; but permit me to make them clear to you, in as plain English as I can command. I want you to dig a grave here and now."

"A grave--here!" echoed Adam, quite believing his old ears were not serving him truly--that he had certainly not heard aright.

"That is what I said," returned Halloran, grimly.

"But, sir!" began old Adam, "this is no graveyard."

"Curse you, who said it was?" cut in the other, sharply.

"It is not to be thought of, sir," murmured the grave digger, trembling in every limb, his brain too bewildered to try to reason out the meaning of this strange request, and quite believing the stranger must be an escaped lunatic.

Coolly and deliberately Halloran drew a revolver from his pocket, and placed it at Adam's throbbing temple, saying, grimly, and harshly:

"You will do as I command or your life will pay the forfeit. I give you one moment of time to decide."

It was a moment so fraught with tragic horror that in all the after years of his life Adam always looked back to it with a shudder of deadly fear.

He was no longer young--the sands of life were running slower than in the long ago--still, life was sweet to him, ah, very sweet. He had a good wife and little bairns at home, and an aged mother, to whom he was very dear, and he was their only support.

Who was this dark-browed stranger? Why did he wish a grave dug by the roadside on this terrible night? Whom did he wish to bury there, and was the body within the coach?

All these thoughts were surging rapidly through his brain, when suddenly Halloran said:

"Your moment for contemplation is up. Will you dig the grave here and now as I command you, or will you prefer that the next pa.s.ser-by should find you on this spot with a bullet hole through your head?"

Even through the semi-darkness old Adam could see the stranger's eyes gleaming pitilessly upon him as he uttered the words, and he realized that if he refused he might expect no mercy at this man's hands.

"Your answer!" said Halloran, pressing the messenger of death still closer to the throbbing brow of the now thoroughly terrified old grave digger.

"Y--es," stammered old Adam.

"That is well," declared Halloran, removing the weapon. "Begin right here by the roadside. This is as good a spot as any. You need not make it the regulation depth--three feet or such a matter will answer. Begin without delay. I will also add that not only will you save your own neck, but you shall earn a comfortable fee if you work quickly. Mind, every minute counts."

The old grave digger slowly took his spade from his shoulder, and by the light from the carriage lamp began his work on the spot pointed out, while Halloran stood by watching him with keen interest.

Old Adam was used to work in the terrible heat of summer and in the bitter cold of the winter. He set to work with a will, and the frozen ground yielded quickly to the strokes of his trusty spade, and surely the faint moon, glimmering from between the drifting clouds sweeping across the dark face of the black heavens overhead, never looked upon a wilder, more weird scene.

Twice old Adam paused, the perspiration pouring down his face like rain.

He was about to cry out: "I cannot go on with this uncanny work," but each time the cold steel of the revolver was pressed to his throbbing brow, and the harsh voice of the m.u.f.fled stranger said: "Go on; your work is almost accomplished."

CHAPTER IX.

"THERE MUST NOT BE A SINGLE TRACE LEFT TO MARK THE SPOT OF THE GRAVE YOU ARE NOW DIGGING," SAID THE m.u.f.fLED STRANGER.

The old grave digger worked on faster and faster by the fitful light of the carriage lamp, with the wild night winds howling about him, and the perspiration streaming down his face, as the stranger stood over him covering his heart with the deadly revolver.

"That will do, my man," he said, as old Adam paused for breath a moment.

"That is deep enough, I guess. It will not take long to place its future tenant therein; then you must replace the earth and pack the snow so carefully about it that it would not attract the attention of the casual pa.s.ser-by. Do you comprehend?"

"Yes," answered the old grave digger, and it seemed to him that his own voice sounded like nothing human.

The stranger turned and walked leisurely to the coach in waiting.

Old Adam would have fled from the spot in mortal terror, but that his limbs were trembling and refused to carry him.

He leaned heavily on his spade, asking himself in growing fright--what terrible mystery was this that fate had drawn him into, and awaiting with quaking heart what would follow.

He had not long to wait. The stranger who had stepped to the carriage evidently proposed to lose no time.

In less time than it takes to recount it, he had lifted from the vehicle a slender figure, closely wrapped in a long dark garment, and as he did so a second person stepped from the coach--a man, closely m.u.f.fled like his companion--and wearing his soft hat pulled low over his eyes.

One glance at the flickering light of the carriage lamp fell upon them, bearing the slender figure between them, and old Adam's heart fairly stood still with horror.

He recognized them at once as the parties who had stood before the altar in the old stone church scarcely an hour before.

Great G.o.d! could it be? Ah, yes, it must be the body of the beautiful, hapless young bride they were bringing to this wild and lonely grave.

How did she happen to die? She who had been so full of bounding life but one short hour before--only the all-seeing eye of the G.o.d above could tell--ay, could solve this horrible mystery.

Another moment, and in utter silence, the slender figure was lowered into the frozen ground by the two strangers.

This accomplished, the same man turned to old Adam again, saying, abruptly:

"Now finish your work as speedily as possible, I repeat the caution--mind--not a trace must be visible when you have accomplished your task, to mark the spot."

No word from the old grave digger answered him. He could not have uttered a single syllable if his very life had depended upon it.

While the other had been speaking, a gust of wind had for a single instant tossed aside the heavy cloth that covered the face, and old Adam saw beyond all doubt that it was indeed the lovely young creature who had within that hour been made a bride, and with that terrible discovery came another--there was, as sure as fate, a flush upon the beautiful face of her whom they were consigning to the tomb.

"Hold!" he cried out with all his strength, drawing back from his work, shaking with terror. "The--the--girl is not dead; there is color--"

A fierce oath from the lips of both men simultaneously cut his words short.

"The girl is dead," exclaimed the man who had so far done the talking.

"That is blood you see on her face. She had a hemorrhage. Go on with your work, you fool--or, here! give me the spade. I will make a short shift of it."

But as the stranger uttered these words, stepping quickly forward to put the thought into execution, a sudden thought, like an inspiration, occurred to the ancient grave digger.

"No--no--I will finish my work," he muttered. "I--I--can do it best, as I--I--understand it--and--and--you, would not."

"Make all haste, then; it is growing bitter cold. We shall all freeze to death."