Again there was a pause--a pause for a single moment. Those near to Him stood breathless and motionless. Suddenly there was the sound of something falling with a loud clatter inside the black depths of the vault. The cemetery-keeper, who stood near the door, sprang backward with a shriek. Then a man suddenly appeared at the mouth of the vault. He stood for a moment at the door of the pit, craning his neck and peering around with a strange, bewildered look. His white, lean face was bound about with a cloth, his eyes were somewhat dazed and bewildered. He plucked at the cloth about his face, and then he came up out of the vault. All about where Gilderman stood there was a tumult of shrieks and cries--a violent commotion swept the crowd like a whirlwind. Gilderman hardly heard it. He saw everything dizzily, as though it were not real. What did it all mean; was he really seeing a dreadful miracle performed; were all those people real? Suddenly he felt some one clutch him and fall, struggling, against him. He looked down. A woman had fallen in a fit at his feet. Gilderman awoke to himself with a shock and began to struggle violently backward through the crowd. He hardly knew what he was doing. He elbowed his way, struggling and trampling, and striving to get out of the press. He did not know himself; he was as another man. He knew in his soul that he had, indeed, seen a miracle--a dreadful, an astounding miracle! He was in a state of blind terror--terror of what was to happen next. Presently he found himself out of the thick of the crowd. He ran away across the graves. The crowd behind him was crying and screaming. Gilderman found that he was running towards the entrance gateway. Then he was out of the place. He seemed to breathe more freely. The negro with the cart was still waiting for him. "What's the matter over there?" he said. "What have they been doing?" Gilderman did not reply. He sprang into the wagon. "Anything happened over there?" the man asked once more. Then he added: "Why, you're as white as a sheet." "Can you make the three-twenty-two train?" cried Gilderman. "I don't know. What time is it now?" said the man. Gilderman looked at his watch, which he held in a shaking and trembling hand. "It's a quarter-past three," he said. Had it been only three-quarters of an hour since he had leaped from the moving train to the platform? "I don't know whether I can ketch her now, unless she's late," the man was saying, but it sounded to Gilderman as though his voice came from a great distance away.