the departed soul.

And now came the question, what was to be done? The village for which
they were bound was still a league away; but they could not stay where
they were all night, and they decided to go on, even if they had to
abandon the chariot and walk--anything would be better than freezing
to death like poor Matamore. But after all, things were not at such a
desperate pass as they supposed; the long rest, and a good feed of oats
that Scapin had been thoughtful enough to give their tired horse, had so
revived the poor old beast that he seemed to be ready and willing to go
forward again--so their most serious difficulty was removed. Matamore's
body was laid in the chariot, and carefully covered with a large
piece of white linen they fortunately happened to have among their
heterogeneous belongings, the women resumed their seats, not without a
slight shudder as they thought of their ghastly companion, and the men
walked--Scapin going in front with the lantern, and Herode leading the
horse. They could not make very rapid progress, but at the end of two
hours perceived--oh, welcome sight!--the first straggling houses of
the village where they were to spend the night. At the noise of the
approaching vehicle the dogs began to bark furiously, and more than one
nightcapped head appeared at the windows as they passed along through
the deserted street--so the pedant was able to ask the way to the inn,
which proved to be at the other end of the hamlet--and the worn-out
old horse had to make one more effort; but he seemed to feel that the
stable, where he should find shelter, rest and food, was before him, and
pushed on with astonishing alacrity.

They found it at last--the inn--with its bunch of holly for a sign. It
looked a forlorn place, for travellers did not usually stop over night
in this small, unimportant village; but the comedians were not in a
mood to be fastidious, and would have been thankful for even a more
unpromising house of entertainment than this one. It was all shut up
for the night, with not a sign of life to be seen, so the tyrant applied
himself diligently to pounding on the door with his big fists, until
the sound of footsteps within, descending the stairs, showed that he had
succeeded in rousing somebody. A ray of light shone through the cracks
in the rickety old door, then it was cautiously opened just a little,
and an aged, withered crone, striving to protect the flame of her
flaring candle from the