"I didn't do it!" Selwyn cried, he had been holding on to the same words all afternoon. They didn't believe his word yet, but he couldn't just wait quietly for them to work out the details of how best to kill him. All he got was that they put the stopper back. Of course, his hands were tied all the time.

Bowden was ordering his father to be tied to a chair, saying it would be easier for him to control once it was all over. "Your son's crime will not harm you or your wife," he promised.

Someone asked how long it might take - Selwyn was eager to hear the answer to that question. But by then they had half-dragged him out of the door. He didn't even look at his father one last time. I didn't do it, he thought, just in case he thought the enthusiasm for the matter would reach his father. But his father must have known about it.

Outside, the sun is stopping on the horizon, pink and orange, in autumn, the afternoon doesn't last long, and there is hardly evening. The torches were lit. Selwyn wondered if anyone would stay in the tomb with him. But even if he is lucky and dies quickly, he will definitely outlast the torch.

Someone brought in a wagon, Orrick's, judging by the smell of the malt liquor seeping into the planks from leaky barrels: strong enough for one to get drunk without having to enter Orrick's tavern. Selwyn was lifted into the back of the carriage and lay face down so that he was in the least trouble.

But he raised his head in a commotion, letting any hope that he didn't know what was happening was gone. A second group came out of the mill with a clumsy bag wrapped in cloth, which must have been Farrow. For a moment, he thought they had made a stretcher to carry the body. But as they placed the body in the carriage beside him, Selwyn realized that the miller's nephew didn't need a stretcher: death had made Farrow stiff as wood—and in the absence of anyone who could gracefully cross his arms over his chest. Selwyn closed his eyes and turned his face; But the carriage was too small to get rid of Farrow's outstretched arm, let alone the smell of him. The smell was just the herb that the village women used to wash the body before sewing it into the shroud, Selwyn told herself. The body really started to rot without it – not yet. Farrow wasn't that bad, and Selwin tried to tell himself again. He's not as good as ...... As...... Dying skunk under the porch? Bad idea, Selwyn blames himself. This is definitely not the time to want to die something.

Selwyn was short of breath - inhaling the smell of beer, herbs, wood and his own sweat - and when they reached the hill he was dizzy, but not yet groggy and confused, which would have been pity. The hand dragged him up from the carriage, then turned him around and sat him on the side, at which point he was clearly unable to stand on his own.

There Anola was, crying loudly. Selwyn had noticed the noise in the background, as well as the creaking of the wheels of the carriage, the rattling of the horses' hooves on the road, and—most importantly—the sound of his own heartbeat. Derian Miller also came, "sending the boy away," he said, apparently referring to Farrow, not Selwyn.

But when Thorne asked, "Do you want to say something before we admit him to the hospital?" Derian shook his head.

"There's nothing to say," said the miller. "He's a good boy and he's got years to come."

"Amen," said Linton in a low voice, willing to take this as a prayer, lest he, as another relative of the deceased, be asked to come up with a better one for himself.

"Amen," echoed the rest of the gatherer.

Bowden, as the person in charge, should have been there, but no. He excused himself that someone had to stay and look after Selwyn's father, though it was more likely that he just didn't want to walk three miles closer. Bowden is better at calling the shots than doing things.

As usual, Thorne took over the job while Bowden was away, and he had to move quickly to get the hang of Linton. "Does anyone want to say something on behalf of Selwyn?" He asked.

People looked at each other uncomfortably. No one looked directly at Selwyn.

Linton snorted.

Holt, the blacksmith, said: "Before this happened, he was also a good boy. ”

Linton snorted again.

What a fervent testimony. How touching is the summary of his life. Just as he was about to die, Selwyn felt a wave of indignation. If he really died instead of being condemned, could his friends come up with something? Selwyn, they might say...... He returned to his own earlier eulogy to Farrow: Selwyn, his friend might say, was not as bad as the dead skunk under the porch.

The entrance to the tomb is man-made: a cart made of piles of stones, blocked by a stone at least as large as Orric's. It takes four people, including the Holt Blacksmith, to move it. In the distance is the cave where the Penrith people were buried due to amnesia.

A dusty, musty stench came from the opening – all in all, not as bad as Farrow. But it was not a good sign that people were covering their noses with cloths—definitely not a good sign—and two men stooped to pick up Farrow, and several others gathered around Selwyn, ready to guide, drag, or carry him into the trolley, whichever necessary.

He could have walked – he hoped the people would have told his family that he had come to the end with dignity – but he tried to stop and take one last look at Anora, even though she was still hiding her face and crying, they thought he was resisting. Each of his arms was grabbed and pulled forward so fast that his feet couldn't properly step under him, so they dragged behind, and the more he struggled to stand up straight, the more everyone thought he was resisting.

They then crossed the uneven ground at the entrance to the cart, and then they made their way down a steep, winding slope, flashlights casting flickering shadows over the rugged walls and ceiling. The caves on these mountains are carved by nature; But people from a long time ago have paved some of the way, albeit not by a small margin. Several people at the funeral party stumbled or slipped. And then—oh, then—the stench of corpses from the entire village came over him. The most recent one is Snell – he died a year ago in an accident where he was mowing grass with a sickle.