“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, Herode, are you ready? and will you, my lord, lead the way with the lantern?”

The mournful little procession moved slowly forward; the howling dog was quiet at last, as if his duty was done, and a deathlike stillness prevailed around them.  It was well that there were no passers-by at that hour; it would have been a strange sight, almost a frightful one, for any such, for they might well have supposed that a hideous crime had been committed; the two men bearing the dead body away at night, lighted by the third with his lantern, which threw their shadows, long, black and misshapen, upon the startling whiteness of the snow, as they advanced with measured tread.  Those who had remained with the chariot saw from afar the glimmer of de Sigognac’s lantern, and wondered why they walked so slowly, not perceiving at that distance their sad burden.  Scapin and Leander hastened forward to meet them, and as soon as they got near enough to see them distinctly the former shouted to them—­“Well, what is the matter? why are you carrying Matamore like that? is he ill, or has he hurt himself?”

“He is not ill,” answered Blazius, quietly, as they met, “and nothing can ever hurt him again—­he is cured forever of the strange malady we call life, which always ends in death.”

“Is he really dead?” Scapin asked, with a sob he did not even try to suppress, as he bent to look at the face of the poor comic actor, for he had a tender heart under his rough exterior, and had cherished a very sincere affection for poor Matamoie.

“Very dead indeed, for he is frozen as well,” Blazius replied, in a voice that belied the levity of his words.

“He has lived! as they always say at the end of a tragedy,” said Herode; “but relieve us, please, it is your turn now; we have carried the poor fellow a long way, and it is well for us that he is no heavier.”