nto his, and essayed to find a pulse at
the wrist--in vain! it was still and icy. Unwilling yet to admit that
the vital spark was extinct, he asked Blazius for his gourd, which he
always carried with him, and endeavoured to pour a few drops of wine
into his mouth--in vain! the teeth were tightly locked together, and the
wine trickled from between his pale lips, and dropped slowly down upon
his breast.

"Leave him in peace! do not disturb these poor remains!" said de
Sigognac in trembling tones; "don't you see that he is dead?" "Alas!
you are right," Blazius added, "he is dead; dead as Cheops in the great
pyramid. Poor fellow! he must have been confused by the blinding snow,
and unable to make his way against that terrible wind, turned aside and
sat down under this tree, to wait until its violence should be spent;
but he had not flesh enough on his bones to keep them warm, and must
have been quickly frozen through and through. He has starved himself
more than ever lately, in hopes of producing a sensation at Paris, and
he was thinner than any greyhound before. Poor Matamore! thou art out
of the way of all trouble now; no more blows, and kicks, and curses for
thee, my friend, whether on or off the stage, and thou wilt be laughed
at no more forever."

"What shall we do about his body?" interrupted the more practical
tyrant. "We cannot leave it here for dogs, and wolves, and birds of prey
to devour--though indeed I almost doubt whether they would touch it,
there is so little flesh upon his bones."

"No, certainly, we cannot leave him here," Blazius replied; "he was a
good and loyal comrade; he deserves better of us than that; we will not
abandon him, poor Matamore! He is not heavy; you take his head and I
will take his feet, and we will carry him to the chariot. To-morrow
morning we will bury him as decently as we can in some quiet, retired
spot, where he will not be likely to be disturbed. Unfortunately we
cannot do better for him than that, for we, poor actors, are excluded
by our hard-hearted and very unjust step-mother, the church, from her
cemeteries; she denies us the security and comfort of being laid to rest
for our last long sleep in consecrated ground. After having devoted our
lives to the amusement of the human race--the highest as well as the more
lowly among them, and faithful sons and daughters of holy church too--we
must be thrown into the next ditch when the end comes, like dead dogs
and horses. Now, Hero