I went over and took a seat by Lulie, and for the first time in the evening felt a little gleam of pleasure in my heart. She received me kindly, and made some trifling remark about my being out of spirits, but I did not heed her. Coming, like a boy, bluntly to the point, I asked:
“Lulie, do you like Frank Paning? I do not, he tries to be so smart.”
“Why, yes,” she said, coloring a little, and biting the tip of her fan, “I do like him some; surely you don’t dislike him for being smart.”
“I don’t mean smart that way; but there’s another bigger reason than that: he is always with you when I want to be.”
“Well, that’s your fault,” she replied, looking at me archly. “I am sure if he comes to me first you can’t expect me to drive him away for you, can you?”
“But he’s been with you all to-night, and I have not had a chance to even talk with you a minute. I wanted to carry you to the supper, but of course he was ahead of me.”
“You ought to have asked me before he did.”
“Even if I had you would have preferred going with him, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh! I must not say, it might flatter you.”
“I wish,” I muttered savagely, “he was back in South Carolina, or wherever he came from.”
“I certainly do not,” she said, with some warmth; “I thought you and Frank were great friends.”
“We were at first, but ever since he lied to Miss Hester, I have not had any use for him.”
“I was angry with him myself that day,” she said, after a little pause, and with a slight change in her tone, “but he has made it all right since. He says he did not see any reason why he should take a whipping when he could get out of it without telling a lie. I cried real hard, though, that day about you and Ned.”
“I don’t expect you cried much for me; ‘twas all for Ned.”
This I said as a feeler, and I watched closely, as well as vainly, to discover some sign of emotion in her reply.
“No, indeed,” she said, looking straight at me, without any drooping of the timorous eyelids, as I had expected; “I felt as if I could take half your blows.”
“I would have them doubled to hear you say so,” I replied, with great warmth and an attempt at a theatrical pressure of my heart, which, however, failed in its effect, from my ignorance of the exact location of that vital organ.
The conversation was now beginning to assume for me a most agreeable turn, and I was beginning to feel recompensed for all my chagrin of the evening, when, to my unspeakable horror I saw William, our servant, coming across the room with my cloak in his hand.
“Marse John, your father says it is time for you to come home. Here is your cloak mistis sent.”
The reversion of feeling was too strong for utterance, and with a choked voice and swimming eyes I rose, and, without a word of parting to Lulie, went out with William. Just as I reached the outer door I met Frank coming in. He bowed with mock reverence, and said, with a sneer:
“Good night, little baby; go to your cradle.”
“I’ll whip you to-morrow!” was all I could grind out between my clenched teeth, while he ran, laughing, into the hall. As I groped my way down the steps, my eyes all blinded with tears, I heard some one say:
“Here come the band! they are going to play for the children.”
This was the last feather on the camel’s back of my fortitude, and I broke down into sobbing.
To have Lulie think I was babyish, and had to be sent for; to have our conversation broken off so suddenly, when it was becoming so pleasant; to leave a scene of gaiety before it was finished, and then, too, when the best part was coming, and, above all, to have my hated rival triumph in my humiliation, was enough to have crushed a stouter heart than mine.
When we reached the corner, round which we turned into our street, William stopped, and said:
“There! listen at the music!”
I wiped away the tears from my eyes, and looked back at the building. ‘Twas brightly illuminated, and indistinct forms could be seen passing to and fro at the windows. A quick, lively air from the band came floating to my ears, and I knew Frank was by Lulie’s side.
“Oh, William,” I sobbed, “I – do – want – to – go back – so bad.”
“I think it was a pity marster sent for you so soon,” he said, “but you are done and away now, and we’d better go on home.”
Wretched, indeed, I ascended the steps at home, and was met at the door by father.
“Well, Johnnie,” he said, locking the door after I had gotten in, “this is right late for a little boy to be up, isn’t it? What! crying! What is the matter?”
“Father – , I did – hate to – leave – so much – . The – band was coming – to play – for us – and I was just – beginning to – see some – fun.”
“I am sorry I broke you up,” he said, kindly, “but it is very late, and much for the best that you should be at home. Good night; run up to bed.”
I went up to my room, and tumbled on the bed with my clothes on. My mind was full of bitter, burning thoughts. I fancied I could still hear the band, and whenever I closed my eyes Lulie’s form, with Frank hovering near, rose to my vision.
Next morning I rose with a headache, and for relief walked out. My steps involuntarily led me to the scene of my chagrin, and in a sad kind of reverie I wandered through the rooms.
‘Tis sad food for reflection to visit a ball room the morning after the ball. Dreary silence has taken the place of noisy mirth and revelry, and the walls and floor look wan in the yellow sunlight, as if suffering from their night’s dissipation. The chandeliers quiver their pendent prisms at your approach, and tinkle a drowsy salutation. Around the music stand are scattered a leaf or two of music, fragments of rosin, and half sucked lemons; along the floor we pick up a fallen wreath, a slipper’s rosette, or a torn fragment of tarlatan. These are all that remind us of the whirling throng that mingled here.
‘Tis very much like life! We thoughtlessly dance upon its arena, and departing leave behind us, some at least, the evergreen wreath, some the tarnished rosette of pleasures tried and found empty, and some the poor torn shred of fruitless ambition.
CHAPTER VIII
One would hardly recognize in the tall youth the little boy that cried so when called away from the party, but times and persons change a great deal in seven years. Ned Cheyleigh is still my bosom friend, nobler, truer and more manly, if a soul such as his can know any degree of improvement. Frank Paning and myself, after innumerable quarrels and make-ups, have grown somewhat intimate, partly from the fact that our families are near neighbors, and partly because we are thrown together so constantly at school, being the only two members of a Latin class. He has lost much of his boyish rudeness, and when it is politic is kind, obliging and pleasant, but I still often feel in his presence the old sensation of repulsion. Lulie is still the bone between us, though with infinite tact she contrives to preserve the balance of feeling. Frank thinks he has the best of the contest, and I often am obliged to think so too, though generally my conceit and vanity keep my spirits up. Thus much for relative position as regards each other. And if, reader, you have become interested in us sufficiently to desire to see us personally, I will endeavor to give you our pictures. First, then, is Ned, a rather stout, thick-set figure; round open face, with large very blue eyes, firm mouth – not expressed so much in the lips as in the set of the teeth beneath them; brownish dark hair, which, though always kept short, always looks dishevelled; nose the least prominent feature in his face, though straight and well formed; his whole face expressing so much integrity of conduct and candor of meaning, that Campanella would have sworn by him without ever hearing him utter a word, though there was not as much depth in it as a man of the world could have wished for. Frank was almost his exact opposite, and much the handsomer of the two. His form was very tall for his age, and graceful; his hair jet black, and curling crisply over a well shaped head; his nose slightly aquiline and long; his mouth, with very white teeth, was always a little curled, either with a smile or a sneer; and, whatever his state of feelings, it ever wore one of these expressions, their only variation being an increased intensity. His eyes were rather small, very black, yet showing a great deal of white in their oblique glances. He always looked straight at you in ordinary pleasant converse, or when he thought he had you at a disadvantage; but when himself in the inferiority, his glance was down and aside, in fact every way but into your eyes. For instance, he could never look his teacher in the face when arraigned for a misdemeanor, yet he would gaze steadily at a comrade while accusing him of wrong. And it was a frequent jest in school that when Frank Paning’s eyes fell he was under “hack.”
But to give you an exact idea of Lulie Mayland is beyond my power. I can describe well enough her bright sunny face, with its clear hazel eyes, its dimpled chin and pouting lips, and her cheeks with the roses coming and going with almost every word; but I cannot describe the effect of the thoughts that seemed to be ever coming up from her soul to her face, yet never uttered. There was always something more beneath those eyes you longed to know. If she looked and expressed sorrow for a misfortune, you knew, as you gazed into her face, there was a vast well of sympathy untold. If she laughed, and laughing was her life’s most constant phase, you felt that it was only the bubbles of mirth, that its springs were yet to be sounded. And in my intercourse with her I always felt there were two Lulies – one on the surface, a bright laughing girl, with a warm sunny heart, whom I loved dearly, and who I sometimes thought loved me; the other was a far more radiant being, whose face was beneath the first Lulie’s, and whose shadow or likeness she constantly wore, though never distinctly enough to be perfectly recognized. And this last Lulie was the idol of my heart – she whom I adored so unceasingly, and yet who I knew deep in my heart never loved me.
I would not affect mystery with this duality; I simply wish to present an idea of one of those faces we sometimes see – faces that, strive how they will, by word and look, can never express all their meaning; faces that, from their very secrecy, so to speak, possess a power we either dread or love. Lulie’s power over me I loved; and loving, hoped one day to attain to the love of her inner soul.
Mr. Cheyleigh possessed a beautiful residence on the Sound, about eight miles from Wilmington, and Ned invited Frank and myself to spend the vacation with him. What an Elysium it was for us! Horses, dogs and boats at our command! Every nook of the Sound was explored in our fishing, crabbing and shrimping excursions; every swamp and lake invaded in our search for summer game. But of all our pleasures the greatest was to go over to the beach and take the surf. The delicate votaries of fashion at the watering places know nothing of its real luxury. Swathed in flannel and buoyed by ropes they strangle through the tortures of a dip, and declare it charming. But to go beyond the reach of lorgnettes, to disrobe entirely without fear of the sun’s tanning, to trip lightly over the cool moist sand, and plunge into the great tossing ocean, is to really enjoy the thing.
But now we are in; we find our depth, and wait for the wave. Ah, here it comes! A great green fellow, crumbling towards the shore; a smooth, glassy valley before it, and its white crest curling proudly in its power. “Here it is! how it rustles! turn your backs! now spring!” and the next instant, swept from our feet, we ride the great monster to land, where he throws us high upon the sand, and sinks back to his watery domain, with a growl for our intrusion.
With our numerous sports time passed all the more rapidly, and we were preparing to return home. The evening previous to the day appointed was a dark and threatening one. A heavy blue bank lay in the west, and though the sun, as he passed beyond it, had thrown across it a bright golden fringe, it refused to be propitiated, and sullenly waited till he had disappeared, when it loomed blackly up, while the constant quivering of the lightning, and the distant, heavy jarring of the thunder told that a storm of no ordinary magnitude was brewing. After tea Mr. Cheyleigh went out on the back piazza to smoke, while we boys took our seats on the steps, and in subdued tones told tales of the awful effects of lightning, and its affinity for isolated houses like Mr. Cheyleigh’s. The cloud had now reached half way up the heavens, and its dark line was distinctly marked on the blue of the sky. A few brave little stars were twinkling defiantly in front of it, though the bright evening star had long since sunk behind its folds. It grew very dark, so that all objects in the yard were invisible, save when for an instant illuminated by the greenish flickering glare of the lightning. We at length caught the dull roar of the distant wind, while the leaves gave their premonitory rustle, as a poor frightened little zephyr fled to them for refuge. We heard the tap of Mr. Cheyleigh’s pipe, and saw the fiery sparks fall from the railing and glow a moment or two amidst the grass, then a few great drops of rain pattered down on the steps, and we rose and entered the house. Windows were pulled down, shutters were fastened, and doors were closed. Another shake among the trees, and then came the shedding, gushing sound of the rain as it fell in torrents, while the wind in all its fury burst upon us. The house cracked, the windows shook, and the corners howled in the terrific blast, while the window sashes clashed back and forth in their slides, as if the storm would burst in the very panes. The lightning showed through the blinds even with the lamps lighted, as if it was broad day out doors, every other second, while the thunders filled up the intervals of darkness with repeated peals, each of which seemed vieing with its predecessor in stunning, deafening sounds.
We all gathered around the lamp stands in silence, and looked into each other’s faces, with eyes wide open from apprehension. Mrs. Cheyleigh had two of the smaller children in her lap, their heads buried in her bosom, and her head resting down on theirs, to keep from seeing the lightning. Mr. Cheyleigh was trying to read, but at every severe peal of thunder would take down the paper and press his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, as if muttering a prayer to himself. The dining room maids were standing back against the wall, their hands folded under their white aprons, and their heads leaning together as they whispered and snickered about their sable beaux. At length Mrs. Cheyleigh spoke, her voice having a very solemn and liturgical tone:
“Mr. Cheyleigh, isn’t this an awful storm?”
As if in applause of her question, a burst of thunder, louder than any before, rolled across the sky, and fell off somewhere in the distance with a terrible thump and a long deep growl.
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Cheyleigh, taking his fingers from his eyes to tear off a corner of his newspaper and put in his mouth; “I have not known so strong a blow as this for several years.”
“I trust,” said Mrs. Cheyleigh, raising her head from the children, with the prints of their heads on her cheeks, “that there is nothing like this to-night at the Springs, where Gertrude and Ella are.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Mr. Cheyleigh smiling a little, “this storm only extends a few miles along our coast. I fear for the vessels, though, if there should be any in reach of this wind.”
“Oh, ‘twould be frightful, indeed, to be on the water such a night as this. I hope every ship is safe in some harbor,” answered Mrs. Cheyleigh, laying her hands on the little heads in her lap, as if they were two little ships, and her arms were their harbor. Aye, they were! Live how or where we may, life’s ocean has no surer shelter from its storms than a mother’s arms; and if early in our voyage this harbor is closed up by the tomb rocks, we only beat about as best we may till we anchor in the vail!
Mr. Cheyleigh now rose, and going to the window, shaded his eyes with the palms of his hand, while he gazed out into the darkness. Turning into the light again, he said:
“I think the danger of the storm is over now, only the rain is falling. As amusements are out of the question I think the children had better go to bed.”
Mrs. Cheyleigh accordingly raised the two little ones from her lap, they getting up with their hair over their eyes, which they kept half shut, as if afraid of another blinding flash of lightning. As they left the room with their attendant, we sat down to the table and made a hasty supper, and after that took our lamps and retired.
In our rooms we undressed, and laying down commenced to talk over the subject of lost ships and rescues. The thunder had moved so far off as to be scarcely audible, though the pale reflected lightning still flickered through the shutters. The wind was still very strong, and drove the heavy rain drops with sharp clicks upon the window panes, as if a million little storm sprites were trying to kick the glass in with their tiny feet. As we lay there, our imaginations filled with the horrors of the sea, we performed enough feats in fancy to have made bankrupt all the humane societies by our demands for medals.
We saved from watery graves enough fair women to set up a larger colony of Bacchæ than Euripides ever sung, or Tennyson jailed in his Womans’ Rights College. We brought off enough treasure in our lifeboat to give every ass in the nation a pair of gold ears, which, in the present condition of affairs, would require more of the precious metal than a Briarean Midas could ever touch into existence with all his hands.
After saving several fleets larger than the Armada we at length got to sleep. Once I awoke under the impression that I heard a cannon shot, and listening I heard three distinct booms, at intervals of a minute or two; but as the lightning was still glimmering I concluded it was the thunder, and, getting a little closer to Ned, dropped to sleep again.
When we went down next morning we found that the storm had left strong marks of its violence everywhere. The yard was washed into gullies and trenches, and strewed with the limbs and leaves of the trees and bunches of mistletoe. One side of the garden paling was blown down, and the rose bushes and shrubbery torn and bent. Down at the stables the water was standing in great yellow pools, in which were floating the shingles and pieces of board torn from the roofs around. The horses and mules were all wet on their backs and manes, where the rain had beat through after the shingles were loosened. The cattle were all drenched, and looked as melancholy, as they stood around the fences with their sleek dripping coats, as if they had been bereaved. The chickens, as well as the dogs, had their tails drooping down instead of erect, a sure sign that they were out of spirits, and nothing in sight seemed to have enjoyed the storm except an old black and white Muscovite drake, who was washing his muddy feathers in a muddy puddle of water near the gate, fluttering his wings, bobbing his head, and whispering, in the greatest glee, to his lady, who was waddling around the edge, followed by a little brood as yellow as if just hatched from the famous golden eggs.
The corn, as far as we could see, was lapped and twisted in the rows, while the rice was lying flat as before a sickle. The sky was still overcast, and great shaggy masses of cloud were drifting rapidly southward, as if ashamed of the havoc they had made. Here and there for an instant shone little patches of blue sky, which kept coming and going all the morning, increasing each time in size, till at noon the sun shone brightly out, jeweling the foliage, gilding the landscape, and even condescending to paint a tiny spectrum on each glistening blade of grass.
After dinner Ned proposed that we go over to the beach, and see the effect of the storm there. As it took us some time to get our boat ready, and the wind was against us, we did not get to the beach till late in the evening. The clouds had all been bleached by the sun to fleecy whiteness, and now, taking their gorgeous orange vestures from the wardrobe of the West, they ranged themselves like Titanic sentries to guard their monarch’s couch.
Far away toward their domain stretched a verdant panorama of washed and fresh looking forests, white, nestling cottages and the wimpling sheen of the Sound. We turned to the grand old ocean, who would not be so easily appeased. The scowl of his fury still lingered on his face, and he lashed the shore in sullen though subsiding rage. The parting sun threw over his angry countenance a shimmering veil of gold, but could not hide the frown. Yet ‘twas wondrous pleasing to behold the myriads of sunlit bubbles, sparkling with rainbow helmets, mount their billow steeds, and, in a long, regular line, come charging to the shore. As fast as one squadron was dashed upon the immovable sand, that lay like a great yellow dragon before them, another succeeded; and, like the victims of Peter the Hermit’s and Bernard’s fanaticism, these millions of little crusaders were wasted on a fitting type of the desolate East.
After contemplating the scene for some time, we began to search up and down the beach for signs of wreck or objects tossed ashore. Something far down the beach caught our eye, and we all hastened toward it, wondering what it could be. There was a dark object, whose shape we could not make out, and near it a bright scarlet something. Curiosity lent wings, and we flew over the distance. Frank Paning was rather fleeter than Ned or myself, and outran us by many yards. We saw him, as he reached the objects, raise both hands and turn towards us with a face full of horror. In a moment we were at his side.
Before us, on the sand, lay two figures still and cold. One was the form of a little girl, lashed to what appeared to be the door of a ship’s cabin. She was bound closely to it with ropes, and was lying with her bloodless cheek pressed down upon the rough panels. Her garments seemed to be of very fine material and make, though now drenched with sea water; over her shoulders was clinging a scarlet cape or mantle, which was the red spot that had attracted our notice. At her side was strapped a curiously carved steel box, now heavily oxidized by the salt sea.
The door and its human freight had been cast high up on the shore; but, tied by one wrist to the knob of the door, lower towards the water, stretched the figure of a man. He was lying on his face, which was so much sunk in the yielding sand that we could only observe his hair, which was long and gray. His form was tall and large, and clad in a black suit of clothes; around his waist was strapped a broad belt of leather, to which, if anything was attached, we could not see it, as the ends must have been beneath him. Ever and anon a wave would break on the shore, and, as if mocking its victims, come rustling up the sand, covering the half buried feet, floating the clinging clothes, on and up, till it lifted and waved like moss the dank gray hair, then sink, sighing, back to the sea; while he lay there, so heedless of all, stretching the cord-bound hand, with its blue, water-shrivelled fingers, appealingly yet protectingly, toward the child on the door.
We gazed long, with all the silence of horror, at the sad spectacle, and with agitated looks at each other. I at length spoke:
“Boys, what must we do? They ought to know of this at Mr. Cheyleigh’s.”
“Yes, indeed, they ought,” said Ned. “Let’s go over and get the negroes and the big boat, and carry both bodies home.”
“Do you reckon they are both dead?” whispered Frank.
“They must be,” returned Ned, looking at them both attentively. “The man is, I am sure; for, if not dead before, the water washing so constantly over him since he has lain here would have drowned him.”
“Let’s see, any way,” said I; and we all three stooped to lift the man first. Not without a shudder did we touch the cold, clammy flesh, as we strove to drag him up from the water’s edge. His weight was too great for us, clogged as he was with sand and water, and we could only move him up the bank a foot or two, and turn him over on his back. We cleaned the sand as well as we could from his mouth, nostrils and eyes – the faded blue balls of the last being so thickly covered with the fine, sharp grains that we had to wipe them very hard with our handkerchiefs – at least Ned and I did; Frank vowed he wasn’t going to put his handkerchief in a dead man’s eyes, just to get the grits out.
We then left the man and tried the girl with better success. We cut the cords that held her to the door, and lifted her up; Ned supporting her head as tenderly as a woman. Never had I dreamed of such beauty! Her face was as colorless as marble, but showed more perfectly for that its exquisite outline; her temples were chased with a network of blue veins that were brought out more distinctly by the cold water she had been in so long. Her eyes were closed, but the lids atoned by their rose-leaf texture and long black fringe. Her mouth was partially open, as if gasping, but made up for this slight disfigurement by disclosing a set of the clearest, smoothest teeth. But, though each separate feature was beautiful, there was a look about them when combined that baffles all description. Perhaps her beauty was enhanced by her romantic surroundings; but I could not help thinking, as she lay there so passive and still, that the angel who had borne her soul away had been trying on the faces of heaven, to see which would suit her best, and had forgotten to take off his fairest.
As we looked on in silent admiration, Ned placed his hand upon her forehead, and exclaimed with great animation:
“Look here, John! her flesh does not feel like the other’s – it is cold, but not so clammy.”
A touch confirmed his remark; for while her hands and forehead were icy cold, there was not that peculiar deathlike clamminess or inelasticity about them that tells so infallibly that the soul has departed, and we drew hope from this circumstance that she might yet live. We ran at the next wave and caught our hats full of water, which we dashed into her face, without stopping to reflect that she had perhaps had enough of water for the present. We loosened her clothing as delicately as possible, and began chafing her hands and arms. Our anxiety to revive her made us almost drown her again with our hats of water, and in our eagerness we rubbed the tender flesh almost raw on her hands and arms.
In the midst of our efforts Ned, who was supporting her, exclaimed:
“Look! look! she drew her breath.”
We gathered excitedly around and watched her closely, but her face was still marble – no sign of life in its pale outlines! After we had gazed a long while in the most intense suspense, a quick spasmodic gasp came through her parted lips, and a quiver played over her eyelids.
What a moment for our heroism! We felt that we were saving from the monster sea a fairer being than ever Palamon and Arcite tilted for. Beowulf, conquering the hideous Grendel, felt no more chivalric pride than did we, as our lovely waif lay with fitful breathings in our arms.
At length her respiration became more regular, and her eyes slowly unclosed. “Eyes” is a meagre word for the magnificent black orbs turned so timidly and wonderingly upon us; they probably served the commonplace purpose of vision, but the pleading eloquence of their look, and the emotions of fear and amazement which were almost audible in her gaze, declared their primary object to be expression.
Turning them restlessly from one to another of us, and failing to recognize any one, she closed them, as if in pain. Ned now ventured to speak, though we were almost afraid he would scare the soul away again that had been so hardly persuaded to return.
“Are you suffering now? Don’t be alarmed, we are all friends.”
Again she opened her eyes, looked wildly at him, then suddenly seemed to come to consciousness. With a frantic look of horror she cried out: “Oh, padre! padre! oh donde està mi padre!” and other frantic sentences, in a language unknown to us, and strove to rise to her feet. Ned and I assisted her, and she stood up on the sand. It was most unfortunate that she did so; for, as she gained her feet, her eyes fell on the corpse near the water, and, with a soul-piercing shriek, she sank to the earth, and all our efforts to revive her again were unavailing. As it had now grown quite dark we intended to hurry across the sound and tell Mr. Cheyleigh. Our sail boat being very small, it was thought best to leave one of us with the body, and to take the little girl in the boat over to the house. As it was not a pleasant solitude by any means, we drew pebbles to see who should remain, and it fell to my lot. Accordingly, Ned and Frank took up their fair burden, and promising me to make all the possible haste they could, went slowly up the banks to their boat. I saw them lay their charge down gently, hoist the sail and glide away in the darkness, and I was alone with the dead. The sun had long since gone down, and the red tinge of the sky was paling into the dusky gray of twilight. Far up and down the beach the dreary waste of waters grew drearier in the deepening shades, and the darkness fell so fast that when I looked up at the sky for a moment, and then turned to the sea, an hour seemed to have elapsed when measured by the increase of gloom. The sail of Ned’s boat at last disappeared behind a point of land, and there was nothing for me to watch but the dead man’s face and the moaning, tossing waters. It was now too dark to distinguish his features; there was only the ghastly white shape of his face, that, as I gazed so long upon it, seemed to make hideous grimaces at me – now sneering at my timidity, now opening its faded eyes to glare at me for having sent the little girl away; now shutting one eye and opening the other, sometimes reversing the face, putting the eyes in the chin and the mouth in the forehead; sometimes disappearing entirely, then suddenly coming back as white as ever. I would have fled up the beach, but I was afraid the corpse would spring up and run after me. And the whole scene was full of death! The stars seemed dead men’s eyes, the sob of each wave was a dying groan, the white foam caps were dying faces, struggling for life, and a white gull, flying across the sky, was a cloth from the face of a corpse.