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The hot dust curdled in the shadow that coiled beneath the stark palmetto. That palmetto always looked like a corpse, though there was life in it yet. Zerviah came to the door of Scip's hovel for air, and looked at the thing. It seemed like something that ought to be buried. There were no other trees. The everglades were miles away. The sand and the scant, starved grass stretched all around.
Scip's hut stood quite by itself. No one passed by. Often no one passed for a week, or even more. Zerviah looked from the door of the hut to the little city. The red light lay between him and it, like a great pool. He felt less lonely to see the town, and the smoke now and then from chimneys. He thought how many people loved and cared for one another in the suffering place.
"I thought it possible that Scip had deceived me, and accordingly spoke to the woman, inquiring if she was Scip's mother. "She replied in the affirmative. "'And where is his father? I next inquired. "'Oh, he's done dead, she said, continuing her washing. "'When did he die? "'Las' night, massa. "'And where is the body? "'Toted off, massa, very first t'ing dis mornin'.
"As he only lived a quarter of a mile off, I got permission to go over to the house, or cabin, where Scip's father had lived. "The outer door was open, and I entered without knocking. A woman was bending over a washtub at the back part of the room. I looked around me for the body, but could see no indication of anything having happened out of the ordinary course.
It grew cooler before the dawn. The leaves of the palmetto over Scip's grave seemed to uncurl, and grow lax, and soften. The dust still flew heavily, but the wind rose. The Sunday-bells rang peacefully. The sick heard them, and the convalescent and the well. The dying listened to them before they left. On the faces of the dead, too, there came the look of those who hear.
By sunset, all the bells had done ringing and done tolling. There was a clear sky, with cool colors. It seemed almost cold about Scip's hut. The palmetto lifted its faint head. The dust slept. It was not yet dark when a little party from the city rode up, searching for the dreary place. They had ridden fast. Dr. Frank was with them, and the lady, Marian Dare. She rode at their head.
Moriarity had brought two of the bags which the Doctor had placed on his own and Scip's horse and had gone back for the third, when the door from the inner hall opened, and, his tangled hair hanging in mats over his eyes, his clothing disarranged, his face purple with rage and a revolver in each hand, Swanson appeared before the surprised robbers.
The shadow beneath the palmetto grew long over Scip's fresh grave. The stars were dim and few. The wind rose, and the lights in the city, where watchers wept over their sick, trembled on the frail breeze, and seemed to be multiplied, like objects seen through tears. Through the wooden shutter, Zerviah could see the lights, and the lonely palmetto, and the grave. He could see those few cold stars.
"Yes, I do; you gave me enough cause last night to remember you all my life." "Suah enough, Massa Cummins," broke in Chip, imitating Scip's voice. Wittrock gazed at the speaker, and in astonishment, cried: "Scip!" "Suah as you bawn, honey, I's de same ole Scip." "And you?" turning to Sam. "Doctor Skinner, at your service," "Then you're the two I have to thank for my being here."
Don't mind me, Scip." Scip put up his feeble hand; Zerviah took it; Scip spoke no more. The nurse held the negro's hand a long time; the lamp went out; they sat on in the dark. Through the flapping wooden shutter the stars looked in. Suddenly, Zerviah perceived that Scip's hand was quite cold. He carried him out by starlight, and buried him under the palmetto. It was hard work digging alone.
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