Fortunately the weather was warm and tranquil. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees. The darkling earth was silent--silent as the watching stars. Even the sordid soul of the vagabond was stirred by the solemn majesty of the sky. He removed his battered hat and looked up. "The heavens are telling the glory of God," he said; but, not recollecting the rest of the text, he resumed his search for a resting-place. It was now only between nine and ten o'clock, yet, as he wandered down the silent street, he could see no glimmer of a light in any window. His feet took him, half unconsciously as it were, by the path leading towards the tapering spire. He went on through a belt of pines which surrounded the church, and came suddenly upon the graveyard, populous with the forgotten dead--at least, he judged they were forgotten by the state of the tombstones. On the hither side he came upon a circular chapel, with lance-shaped windows and marvelous decoration wrought in gray-stone on the outer walls. Some distance off rose a low wall, encircling the graveyard, and beyond the belt of pines through which he had just passed stretched the league-long herbage of the moor. He guessed this must be the Lady Chapel. Between the building and the low wall he noticed a large tomb of white marble, surmounted by a winged angel with a trumpet. "Dick Marlow's tomb," he surmised. Then he proceeded to walk round it as that of his own familiar friend, for he had already half persuaded himself into some such belief. But he realized very soon that he had not come hither for sight-seeing, for his limbs ached, and his feet burned, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. He rolled along towards a secluded corner, where the round of the Lady Chapel curved into the main wall of the church. There he found a grassy nook, warm and dry. He removed his gloves with great care, placed them in his silk hat, and then took off his boots and loosened his clothes. Finally he settled himself down amid the grass, put a hand up either coat-sleeve for warmth, and was soon wrapped in a sound slumber. He slept on undisturbed until one o'clock, when--as say out-of-door observers--the earth turns in her slumber. This vagrant, feeling as it were the stir of Nature, turned too. A lowing of cows came from the moor beyond the pines. A breath of cool air swept through the branches, and the somber boughs swayed like the plumes of a hearse. Across the face of the sky ran a shiver. He heard distinctly what he had not noticed before, the gush of running water. He roused himself and sat up alert, and strained his hearing. What was it he heard now? He listened and strained again. Voices surely! Men's voices!