The conversation then ceased, and Falgate heard the sound of horses' feet the next minute marching down the hill. The situation of Diggory Falgate was to himself by no means pleasant, and, indeed, few are the men who would find themselves particularly at their ease, shut up for a whole night within an old church, and with even the probability of death before them for the next morning. Silence, and midnight solitude, and the proximity of graves, and shrouds, and mouldering clay, are things well calculated to excite the imagination even of the cold and calculating, to damp the warm energies of hope, and open all the sources of terror and superstitious awe within us. How often, in the warm daylight, and in the midst of the gay and busy world, does man, roused for a moment by some accidental circumstance to a conviction of the frail tenure by which life is held, think of death and all that may follow it with no other sensation than a calm melancholy. It is because every object around him, everything that he sees, everything that he hears, and everything that he feels, are so full of life, that he cannot think death near. He sees it but in the dim and misty perspective of future years, with all its grim features softened and indistinct. But when he hears no sound of any living thing, when his eye rests upon nothing moving with the warm energies of animation, when all is as dark as the vault, as silent as the grave--it is then, that, if the thought of death presents itself, it comes near--horribly near. Clearer from the obscurity around, more distinct and tangible from the stillness of all things, death becomes a living being to our fancy, with his icy hand upon our brow, his barbed dart close at our heart. We see him, feel him, hear the dread summons of his charnel voice; and prepare for the extinction of the light within the coffin's narrow bed, the mould and corruption of the tomb.