“She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, ‘till the tears came into my eyes.
πειρασμὸς ὑμᾶς οὐκ εἴληφεν εἰ μὴ ἀνθρώπινος: πιστὸς δὲ ὁ θεός, ὃς οὐκ ἐάσει ὑμᾶς πειρασθῆναι ὑπὲρ ὃ δύνασθε, ἀλλὰ ποιήσει σὺν τῷ πειρασμῷ καὶ τὴν ἔκβασιν τοῦ δύνασθαι ὑπενεγκεῖν.
The dusk set in as a fatigued collier threaded the woods, his body bent by the weight on his shoulders, a semblance already burdened by years of hard labour. His footsteps cracked an eerie silence that was seldom punctuated with the sounds of nightly creatures or unfamiliar sighs. Slowing down as he approached a small glade, he then proceeded to load his kiln with the logs he was carrying - not forgetting to pass by a large stone near the river, where he would always leave a fruit, a flower, or a portion of his harvest before setting it afire. A longstanding tradition passed onto him through generations, as the people who had known those woods were well aware of its dwellers and keepers. The token served as a proof of recognition and ensured the wanderers a tranquil night’s sleep - for whatever eyes could pry on them from the dark, would just as equally guard them.