There had evidently been a convent attached to this church at one
time; for here stood a row of simple wooden coffins all exactly
alike, bearing each one upon its lid a roughly painted cross
surrounded by a wreath. Thus were buried the monks of days long past.
Muller walked slowly through the rows of coffins looking eagerly to
each side. Suddenly he stopped and stood still. His hand did not
tremble but his thin face was pale--pale as that face which looked
up at him out of one of the coffins. The lid of the coffin stood
up against the wall and Muller saw that there were several other
empty ones further on, waiting for their silent occupants.
The body in the open coffin before which Muller stood was the body
of the man who had been missing since the day previous. He lay
there quite peacefully, his hands crossed over his breast, his eyes
closed, a line of pain about his lips. In the crossed fingers was
a little bunch of dark yellow roses. At the first glance one might
almost have thought that loving hands had laid the old pastor in his
coffin. But the red stain on the white cloth about his throat, and
the bloody disorder of his snow-white hair contrasted sadly with the
look of peace on the dead face.
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