“O, never mind bothering with the servants, then. I will go and bring them down.” While he was gone, the earl worked his idea. “Yes,” he said to himself, “when I’ve got the materializing down to a certainty, I will get Hawkins to kill them, and after that they will be under better control. Without doubt a materialized negro could easily be hypnotized into a state resembling silence. And this could be made permanent—yes, and also modifiable, at will—sometimes _very_ silent, sometimes turn on more talk, more action, more emotion, according to what you want. It’s a prime good idea. Make it adjustable—with a screw or something.” The two ladies entered, now, with Hawkins, and the two negroes followed, uninvited, and fell to brushing and dusting around, for they perceived that there was matter of interest to the fore, and were willing to find out what it was. Sellers broke the news with stateliness and ceremony, first warning the ladies, with gentle art, that a pang of peculiar sharpness was about to be inflicted upon their hearts—hearts still sore from a like hurt, still lamenting a like loss—then he took the paper, and with trembling lips and with tears in his voice he gave them that heroic death-picture. The result was a very genuine outbreak of sorrow and sympathy from all the hearers. The elder lady cried, thinking how proud that great-hearted young hero’s mother would be, if she were living, and how unappeasable her grief; and the two old servants cried with her, and spoke out their applauses and their pitying lamentations with the eloquent sincerity and simplicity native to their race. Gwendolen was touched, and the romantic side of her nature was strongly wrought upon. She said that such a nature as that young man’s was rarely and truly noble, and nearly perfect; and that with nobility of birth added it was entirely perfect. For such a man she could endure all things, suffer all things, even to the sacrificing of her life. She wished she could have seen him; the slightest, the most momentary contact with such a spirit would have ennobled her whole character and made ignoble thoughts and ignoble acts thereafter impossible to her forever. “Have they found the body, Rossmore?” asked the wife. “Yes, that is, they’ve found several. It must be one of them, but none of them are recognizable.” “What are you going to do?” “I am going down there and identify one of them and send it home to the stricken father.” “But papa, did you ever see the young man?” “No, Gwendolen-why?” “How will you identify it?” “I—well, you know it says none of them are recognizable. I’ll send his father one of them—there’s probably no choice.” Gwendolen knew it was not worth while to argue the matter further, since her father’s mind was made up and there was a chance for him to appear upon that sad scene down yonder in an authentic and official way. So she said no more—till he asked for a basket. “A basket, papa? What for?” “It might be ashes.”