Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. “I’ve gotta go. " The patient was asleep.
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