To this the vindictive miners had condemned him; they had sat on his body and passed a resolution, and sworn he should not have Christian burial, so they managed to hide his corpse till the slack got low, and then they brought him up at night and chucked him like a dog on to the smouldering coal; one-half of him was charred away when Monckton found him, but his face was yet untouched.

Two sturdy miners walked to and fro as sentinels, armed with hammers, and firmly resolved that neither law nor gospel should interfere with this horrible example.
Even Monckton, the man of iron nerves, started back with a cry of dismay at the sight and the smell.
One of the miners broke into a hoarse, uneasy laugh.

"Yow needn't to skirl, old man." he cried.

"Yon's not a man; he's nobbut a murderer.

He's fired t' mine and made widows and orphans by t' score," "Ay," said the other, "but there's a worse villain behoind, that found t' brass for t' job and tempted this one.