Not a sound was heard but the voice of the preacher and the
roaring of the waves; but the voice was heard loud above the roaring of
the sea, for the preacher now spoke with power, and his voice was not
that of one who hesitates. There he stood--no longer a young man, for
his black locks were become grey, even like my own; but there was the
intelligent face, and the calm serious look which had struck me of yore.
There stood the preacher, one of those men--and, thank God, their number
is not few--who, animated by the spirit of Christ, amidst much poverty,
and, alas! much contempt, persist in carrying the light of the Gospel
amidst the dark parishes of what, but for their instrumentality, would
scarcely be Christian England. I would have waited till he had
concluded, in order that I might speak to him, and endeavour to bring
back the ancient scene to his recollection, but suddenly a man came
hurrying towards the monticle, mounted on a speedy horse, and holding by
the bridle one yet more speedy, and he whispered to me, 'Why loiterest
thou here?--knowest thou not all that is to be done before midnight?' and
he flung me the bridle; and I mounted on the horse of great speed, and I
followed the other, who had already galloped off. And as I departed, I
waved my hand to him on the monticle, and I shouted, 'Farewell, brother!
the seed came up at last, after a long period!' and then I gave the
speedy horse his way, and leaning over the shoulder of the galloping
horse, I said, 'Would that my life had been like his--even like that
man's!'

I now wandered along the heath, till I came to a place where, beside a
thick furze, sat a man, his eyes fixed intently on the red ball of the
setting sun.

'That's not you, Jasper?'

'Indeed, brother!'

'I've not seen you for years.'

'How should you, brother?'

'What brings you here?'

'The fight, brother.'

'Where are the tents?'

'On the old spot, brother.'

'Any news since we parted?'

'Two deaths, brother.'

'Who are dead, Jasper?'

'Father and mother, brother.'

'Where did they die?'

'Where they were sent, brother.'

'And Mrs. Herne?'

'She's alive, brother.'

'Where is she now?'

'In Yorkshire, brother.'

'What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?' said I, as I sat down
beside him.

'My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song
of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing--

Cana marel o manus chivios ande puv,