"As near the gates as possible. I should suggest that the grave be dug in the circle of the main driveway. The grave of Metz and Purdy will become one of the most famous in Pennsylvania; it should not be put in an obscure place." So the circle is decided upon as the proper place for the common grave of the millionaire transgressor and the martyr. As the throng passes through the gates many of the men seize spades and picks, implements which they know only too well how to use. It does not take twenty minutes to dig the grave. When the work is completed, the fact dawns upon the minds of the leaders that they have neglected to provide a coffin for the bodies. "What shall we do for coffins?" one of the grave-diggers asks, as he smooths over the edges of the grave. "Give them soldiers' burial," suggests one of the bystanders. "Here, take my shawl," says a shivering woman, as she pulls a thin faded gray shawl from her shoulders. Her suggestion is followed by a score of other trembling wretches. The strangest shroud that ever wrapped mortal remains is used in the interment. The bodies of Metz and Purdy are still being carried by the miners. Now a priest who has accompanied the funeral from the time it crossed the bridge, is escorted through the crowd to the edge of the grave. "Will you conduct the burial service over these two bodies?" Trueman asks of the man of God. "Neither was prepared for death," protests the priest. "That is all the more reason for your offering up prayers for their souls." "Were they of my faith?" inquires the priest. "They are dead now and faith has nothing to do with the matter. We want you as a Christian to pronounce the words of the burial service over these bodies." "One of these men was a murderer," further protests the priest. "Which one?" demands Trueman. "They say Mete killed German Purdy," is the response. "And a hundred men within call of us will tell you that Gorman Purdy killed fifty men in his time," retorts a bystander. These words, so bitter yet so just, would be cruel indeed for the ears of Ethel Purdy; but she has lapsed into semi-consciousness. Harvey still holds her in his arms; he seems oblivious of the burden he has borne for more than a mile and a half. "I cannot go through the forms of the church over the grave of these men," the priest declares emphatically. "It would be a sacrilege. But I will say a prayer for their departed spirits." On the tombs that range in a wide semi-circle from the entrance, the crowd has taken points of vantage. Those who cannot force their way to the inner circle about the grave, stand aloof, yet where they can observe the simple, impressive ceremonies. In a thin, querulous voice the prayer is asked. It is such an invocation as might have been uttered over the remains of two gladiators. Blood is upon the head of each; the prayer craves forgiveness. As the priest concludes, the bodies are wrapped in the shawls and lowered into the grave.