Page:The Way of the Cross, Doroshevich, tr. Graham, 1916.djvu/95

 Rh It is a girl that has died.

Four girls are carrying the coffin.

They will bury her in the right way, with the ritual.

In the proper place.

The little procession went past, simple, beautiful, melancholy.

No one stopped to look round, to turn the head.

No one meeting the procession crossed himself, nor drew off his hat, nor gave any attention.

As if the people had ceased to see with their eyes.

And there stretches, stretches, along the footways, along the margin of the road, without respite, without interval, without interruption, the two processions ever coming towards one another and passing.

Grey carts, carts, carts. Horses, horses, horses, fugitives wandering like