Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint.
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