They halted, and questioned each other with frightened eyes.
"Geraldine!" wailed the voice. "Cruel, perjured Geraldine!"
"It was going on just like this," whispered Mrs. Buzza, "when I came
along. I shut my eyes, and ran past as hard as I could; but my head
was so full of voices and cries that I didn't know if 'twas real or
only my fancy."
"Geraldine!" continued the voice. "Oh! dig my grave--my shroud
prepare; for she was false as she was fair. Geraldine, my
Geraldine!"
"Moggridge, by all that's holy!" cried Sam.
It was even so. They advanced a few yards, and to the right of the
road, beside a gate, they saw him. The poet reclined limply against
the hedge, and with his head propped upon a carpet-bag gazed
dolefully into the moon's face.
"Thou bid'st me," he began again, "thou bid'st me think no more about
thee; but, tell me, what is life without thee? A scentless flower, a
blighted--"
At the sound of their footsteps he looked round, stared blankly into
Sam's face, and then, snatching up the carpet-bag, leapt to his feet
and tore down the road as fast as he could go.
Sam paused. They had reached the brow of the steeper descent, where
the road takes a sudden determination, and plunges abruptly into the
valley, Below, the roofs of the little town lay white and sparkling,
and straight from a wreath of vapour the graceful tower of St.
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