"One of Ardmore's Dutchmen. Shipping the corpse back to Germany." The party ahead of them paused as though debating the case. The north-bound party was a blur in the road. Their horses sniffed and moved restlessly about as their riders conferred. "Give us the road!" shouted Cooke. "We haven't much time to catch our train." "Who did you say was dead?" "Karl Schmidt," returned Paul promptly. Ardmore's heart sank, fearful lest an inspection of the corpse should be proposed. But at this moment a wail, eerie and heart-breaking, rose and fell dismally upon the night. It was Jerry mourning her dead husband, her slight figure swaying back and forth over his body in an abandon of grief. "De poor vidow--she be mit us," called out big Paul, forsaking his usual excellent English for guttural dialect. "Who are _you_ fellows?" demanded Cooke, spurring his horse forward. The horsemen, to his surprise, seemed to draw back, and he heard a voice speak out sharply, followed by a regrouping of the riders at the side of the road. "We been to a dance at Turner's, and air goin' back home to Kildare," came the reply. "That seems all right," whispered Ardmore to Collins. "Thus," muttered Collins, "in the midst of death we are in life," and this, reaching Jerry, caused her to bend over the corpse at her feet as though in a convulsive spasm of sorrow, whereupon, to add color to their story, Paul rumbled off a few consolatory sentences in German. "Give us the road!" commanded Cooke, and without further parley they started ahead, closing about the wagon to diminish, as far as possible, the size of the caravan. Paul kept the horses at a walk, as became their sad errand, and Jerry continued to weep dolorously. They passed the horsemen at a slight rise in the rolling road. The party bound for Turner's moved steadily forward, the horsemen huddled about the wagon, with Jerry's led horse between Ardmore and Collins at the rear. At the top of the knoll hung the returning dancers, well to the left of the road, permitting with due respect the passing of the funeral party. One of the men, Ardmore could have sworn, lifted his hat until the wagon had passed. Then some one called good night, and, looking back, Ardmore saw them--a dozen men, he judged--regain the road and quietly resume their journey toward Kildare. "Pretty peaceable for fellows who've been attending a dance," suggested Collins, craning his neck to look after them. Cooke turned back with the same observation, and seemed troubled. "I was afraid to look too closely at those men. They seemed rather too sober, and I was struck with the fact that they bunched up pretty close, as though they were hiding something." "They were afraid of the corpse," remarked Collins readily. "To meet a dead man on a lonely road at this hour of the morning is enough to sober the most riotous." "One fellow lifted his hat as we passed, and I thought--" "Well, what did you think, Mr. Ardmore?" demanded Cooke impatiently.