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18 brothers began to shovel in the dirt; while their superior, standing by, looked out, stern as death. When the mould had reached the unclear unclear, St Francis bent down, and, fixing his eyes on him, said, are you dead yet - is your self will dead - do you yield? There was no answers. The signal was given and the burial went on. When at length, he was buried up to the neck, even to the lips, St. Francis bent down once more to repeat the question, are you dead yet? The monk lifted his eye to his superiors, to see me in the cold grey eyes, that were fixed on him no spark of human feeling. Dead to pity, St. Francis, stand ready to give the sequal? that should finish the burial. But it was not needed; unclear. He was unclear; the funeral was stopped; his will yielded to a stronger, and the poor man said "I am dead". I would not be dead as