The fact that Henry Armstrong was buried did not seem to him to prove that he was dead： he had always been a hard man to convince. That he really was buried， the testimony1 of his senses compelled him to admit. His posture—flat upon his back， with his hands crossed upon his stomach and tied with something that he easily broke without profitably altering the situation—the strict confinement of his entire person， the black darkness and profound silence， made a body of evidence impossible to controvert and he accepted it without cavil2.

亨利·阿姆斯特朗一向固执己见：在他看来，入土的事实似乎并不能证明他已逝去。他确已入土，所有感官都迫使他不得不承认这一点。他仰面平躺，双手被缚交叉置于腹部（挣脱那束缚轻而易举，但于事无补）——整个人以这样的姿势被禁锢于逼仄的空间，周遭漆黑一片、万籁俱寂，这些都是无法辩驳的证据。对于被埋的事实，他默然接受。

But dead—no; he was only very， very ill. He had， withal， the invalid’s apathy3 and did not greatly concern himself about the uncommon fate that had been allotted to him. No philosopher was he—just a plain， commonplace person gifted， for the time being， with a pathological indifference： the organ that he feared consequences with was torpid. So， with no particular apprehension4 for his immediate future， he fell asleep and all was peace with Henry Armstrong.

但要说死，他不承认；他只是病入膏肓。久病令他看淡一切，对于这不同寻常的命运也不甚挂怀。他并非哲人，不过一个再平常不过的普通人，当下处于那种重疾所致的漠然状态——他用来担心后果的器官麻木不仁。总之，此时此刻的亨利·阿姆斯特朗安然入眠，对迫近的死亡毫无忧惧。

But something was going on overhead. It was a dark summer night， shot through with infrequent shimmers of lightning silently firing a cloud lying low in the west and portending a storm. These brief， stammering illuminations brought out with ghastly distinctness the monuments and headstones5 of the cemetery and seemed to set them dancing. It was not a night in which any credible witness was likely to be straying about a cemetery， so the three men who were there， digging into the grave of Henry Armstrong， felt reasonably secure.

突然，坟头上方有了动静。