out the dead!" She rose, and with a noiseless
step, passed to secure the door, when the dull lamp gleamed upon the
dark and shrouded forms of the Becchini.

"You have not marked the door, nor set out the body," said one gruffly;
"but this is the third night! He is ready for us."

"Hush, he sleeps--away, quick, it is not the Plague that seized him."

"Not the Plague?" growled the Becchino in a disappointed tone;
"I thought no other illness dared encroach upon the rights of the
gavocciolo!"

"Go--here's money; leave us."

And the grisly carrier sullenly withdrew. The cart moved on, the bell
renewed its summons, till slowly and faintly the dreadful larum died in
the distance.

Shading the lamp with her hand, Irene stole to the bed side, fearful
that the sound and the intrusion had disturbed the slumberer. But his
face was still locked, as in a vice, with that iron sleep. He stirred
not--the breath scarcely passed his lips--she felt his pulse, as the
wan hand lay on the coverlid--there was a slight beat--she was
contented--removed the light, and, retiring to a corner of the room,
placed the little cross suspended round her neck upon the table, and
prayed, in her intense suffering, to Him who had known death, and
who--Son of Heaven though he was, and Sovereign of the Seraphim--had
also prayed, in his earthly travail, that the cup might pass away.

The Morning broke, not, as in the North, slowly and through shadow,
but with the sudden glory with which in those climates Day leaps
upon earth--like a giant from his sleep. A sudden smile--a burnished
glow--and night had vanished. Adrian still slept; not a muscle seemed to
have stirred; the sleep was even heavier than before; the silence became
a burthen upon the air. Now, in that exceeding torpor so like unto
death, the solitary watcher became alarmed and terrified. Time
passed--morning glided to noon--still not a sound nor motion. The
sun was midway in Heaven--the Friar came not. And now again touching
Adrian's pulse, she felt no flutter--she gazed on him, appalled and
confounded; surely nought living could be so still and pale. "Was it
indeed sleep, might it not be--" She turned away, sick and frozen; her
tongue clove to her lips. Why did the father tarry?--she would go to
him--she would learn the worst--she could forbear no longer. She glanced
over the scroll the Monk had left her: "From sunrise," it said, "I shall
be at the Convent of the Dominicans. Death has stricke