“And how about the gravedigger?  He puts the newly dead down beside the old corpses, and lives as peacefully as anyone else.”

“He is doing his duty,” answered Outzen calmly.  “But to disturb the peace of the grave from sheer daring, with the fumes of the punch still in your head,—­that is a different matter,—­that will surely be punished!”

His words irritated me.  It is not very flattering, particularly if one is not yet twenty, to be told that you are about to perform a daring deed simply because you are drunk.  Without any further reply to his protests I took the key from its place on the wall and ran downstairs two steps at a time, vowing to myself that I would take home an arm let cost what it would.  I would show Outzen, and Soelling, and all the rest, what a devil of a fellow I was.

My heart beat rapidly as I stole through the long dark corridor, past the ruins of the old convent of St. Clara, into the so-called third courtyard.  Here I took a lantern from the hall, lit it and crossed to the mill where the clay was prepared for the factory.  The tall wheels and cylinders, with their straps and bolts, looked like weird creatures of the night in the dim light of my tallow candle.  I felt my courage sinking even here, but I pulled myself together, opened the last door with my key and stepped out into the fourth courtyard.  A moment later I stood on the dividing line between the cemetery and the factory.

The entire length of the tall blackened planking had been torn down.  The pieces of it lay about, and the earth had been dug up to considerable depth, to make a foundation for a new wall between Life and Death.  The uncanny emptiness of the place seized upon me.  I halted involuntarily as if to harden myself against it.  It was a raw, cold, stormy evening.  The clouds flew past the moon in jagged fragments, so that the churchyard, with its white crosses and stones, lay now in full light, now in dim shadow.  Now and then a rush of wind rattled over the graves, roared through the leafless trees, bent the complaining bushes, and caught itself in the little eddy at the corner of the church, only to escape again over the roofs, turning the old weather vane with a sharp scream of the rusty iron.

I looked toward the left—­there I saw several weird white shapes moving gently in the moonlight.  “White sheets,” I said to myself, “it’s nothing but white sheets!  This drying of linen in the churchyard ought to be stopped.”

I turned in the opposite direction and saw a heap of bones scarce two paces distant from me.  Holding my lantern lower, I approached them and stretched out my hand—­there was a rattling in the heap; something warm and soft touched my fingers.

I started and shivered.  Then I exclaimed:  “The rats! nothing but the rats in the churchyard!  I must not get frightened.  It will be so foolish—­they would laugh at me.  Where the devil is that arm?  I can’t find one that isn’t broken!”