ite thorn, and a deep ditch, the little
inclosure--uncultivated, though gay in its sterility; because the mosses
there grew thick, wild heliotrope and ravenelles there mingled perfumes,
while from beneath an ancient chestnut issued a crystal spring, a
prisoner in its marble cistern, and on the thyme all around alighted
thousands of bees from the neighboring plants, whilst chaffinches and
redthroats sang cheerfully among the flower-spangled hedges. It was to
this place the somber coffins were carried, attended by a silent and
respectful crowd. The office of the dead being celebrated, the last
adieux paid to the noble departed, the assembly dispersed, talking,
along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the father, of the
hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy end upon the arid coast
of Africa.

Little by little, all noises were extinguished, like the lamps
illuminating the humble nave. The minister bowed for the last time to
the altar and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant,
he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D'Artagnan, left alone,
perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour, thinking
only of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated
in the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last
adieu to the double grave which contained his two lost friends.

A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped at
the door of the chapel, to avoid disturbing her, and also to endeavor to
find out who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with
so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown had hidden her face in her
hands, which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her
costume, she must be a woman of distinction. Outside the inclosure were
several horses mounted by servants; a travelling carriage was in waiting
for this lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her
delay. She continued praying, and frequently pressed her handkerchief to
her face, by which D'Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He beheld her
strike her breast with the compunction of a Christian woman. He heard
her several times exclaim as from a wounded heart: "Pardon! pardon!" And
as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw
herself down, almost fainting, exhausted by complaints and prayers,
D'Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends,
made a few steps toward