Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. Returning to the churchyard, he walked round it; and on the western side, near a small yew-tree discovered a new-made grave. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation.
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