The innkeeper's rules were the same as everyone's along that road. When you hear the bell, put out the lamp, hold the dog, do not open the door. He had kept them for nineteen years and had never once looked, which he was aware was not the same thing as never having wanted to.
The bell came through a little after midnight, the way it did perhaps four times a year, and he put out the lamp and held the dog by the collar in the dark of the back room, and the dog did not bark, which was unusual, because the dog always barked.
In the morning there was the courtyard to sweep, and the courtyard had been rained on the evening before, and the dirt held everything beautifully.
The driver's prints came in at the gate and went out at the far end. Behind them, in file, were three more sets, close-spaced and dragging slightly, the way a man's feet drag when he is being moved rather than moving.
Three sets behind the driver. He had counted the coffins the last time a file came through and there had been three then too, so that was right, that was as it should be.
He went back to sweeping and got about half the yard done before he stopped and went back and counted again.
There were four.
The bell was in the corner of the back room where the driver had set it down and forgotten it, and while he stood in the yard with the broom in his hands it rang, twice, by itself.