ed in two lines, to allow
it admission.

Meanwhile, a striking change had taken place, even in this brief period,
in the appearance of the night. The sky, heretofore curtained with
darkness, was now illumined by a serene, soft moon, which, floating in a
watery halo, tinged with silvery radiance the edges of a few ghostly
clouds that hurried along the deep and starlit skies. The suddenness of
the change could not fail to excite surprise and admiration, mingled
with regret that the procession had not been delayed until the present
time.

Slowly and mournfully the train was seen to approach the churchyard,
winding, two by two, with melancholy step, around the corner of the
road. First came Dr. Small; then the mutes, with their sable panoply;
next, the torch-bearers; next, those who sustained the coffin, bending
beneath their ponderous burden, followed by Sir Ranulph and a long line
of attendants, all plainly to be distinguished by the flashing
torchlight. There was a slight halt at the gate, and the coffin changed
supporters.

"Ill luck betide them!" ejaculated Peter; "could they find no other
place except that to halt at? Must Sir Piers be gatekeeper till next
Yule! No," added he, seeing what followed; "it will be poor Toft, after
all."

Following close upon the coffin came a rude shell, containing, as Peter
rightly conjectured, the miserable remains of Simon Toft, who had met
his fate in the manner described by Plant. The bolt of death glanced
from the tree which it first struck, and reduced the unfortunate farmer
to a heap of dust. Universal consternation prevailed, and doubts were
entertained as to what course should be pursued. It was judged best by
Dr. Small to remove the remains at once to the charnel-house. Thus
"unanointed, unaneled, with all his imperfections on his head," was poor
Simon Toft, in one brief second, in the twinkling of an eye, plunged
from the height of festivity to the darkness of the grave, and so
horribly disfigured, that scarce a vestige of humanity was discernible
in the mutilated mass that remained of him. Truly may we be said to walk
in blindness, and amidst deep pitfalls.

The churchyard was thronged by the mournful train. The long array of
dusky figures--the waving torchlight gleaming ruddily in the white
moonshine--now glistening upon the sombre habiliments of the bearers,
and on their shrouded load, now reflected upon the jagged branches of
the yew-trees, or falling upon the ivied