"But, I repeat the question," Edward began once more, "what does all this mean? I left you a short time ago in friendly conversation. I come back and find you both armed--both violently agitated--and M. D'Effernay, at least, speaking incoherently. What do you mean by 'proving it?'--to what do you allude?" At this moment, before any answer could be made, a man came out of the house with a pick-axe and shovel on his shoulder, and advancing toward the rector, said respectfully, "I am quite ready, sir, if you have the key of the churchyard." It was now the captain's turn to look anxious: "What are you going to do, you surely don't intend--?" but as he spoke, the rector interrupted him. "This gentleman is very desirous to see the place where his friend lies buried." "But these preparations, what do they mean?" "I will tell you," said Edward, in a voice and tone that betrayed the deepest emotion, "I have a holy duty to perform. I must cause the coffin to be opened." "How, what!" screamed D'Effernay, once again. "Never--I will never permit such a thing." "But, sir," the old man spoke, in a tone of calm decision, contrasting wonderfully with the violence of him whom he addressed, "you have no possible right to interfere. If this gentleman wishes it, and I accede to the proposition, no one can prevent us from doing as we would." "I tell you I will not suffer it," continued D'Effernay, with the same frightful agitation. "Stir at your peril," he cried, turning sharply round upon the grave-digger, and holding a pistol to his head; but the captain pulled his arm away, to the relief of the frightened peasant. "M. D'Effernay," he said, "your conduct for the last half-hour has been most unaccountable--most unreasonable." "Come, come," interposed Edward, "Let us say no more on the subject; but let us be going," he addressed the rector; "we will not detain these gentlemen much longer." He made a step toward the churchyard, but D'Effernay clutched his arm, and, with an impious oath, "you shall not stir," he said; "that grave shall not be opened." Edward shook him off, with a look of silent hatred, for now indeed all his doubts were confirmed. D'Effernay saw that Wensleben was resolved, and a deadly pallor spread itself over his features, and a shudder passed visibly over his frame. "You are going!" he cried, with every gesture and appearance of insanity. "Go, then;" ... and he pointed the muzzle of the pistol to his mouth, and before any one could prevent him, he drew the trigger, and fell back a corpse. The spectators were motionless with surprise and horror; the captain was the first to recover himself in some degree. He bent over the body with the faint hope of detecting some sign of life. The old man turned pale and dizzy with a sense of terror, and he looked as if he would have swooned, had not Edward led him gently into his house, while the two others busied themselves with vain attempts to restore life.