“Holy fathers,” said he then, “may I pray your goodness to tell me my nearest way to the convent Santa Maria de’ Pazzi?”

“Son,” said one of these featureless spectres, for so they seemed in their shroud-like robes, and uncouth vizards,—­“son, pass on your way, and God be with you.  Robbers or revellers may now fill the holy cloisters you speak of.  The abbess is dead; and many a sister sleeps with her.  And the nuns have fled from the contagion.”

Adrian half fell from his horse, and, as he still remained rooted to the spot, the dark procession swept on, hymning in solemn dirge through the desolate street the monastic chaunt—­

     “By the Mother and the Son,
     Death endured and mercy won: 
     Spare us, sinners though we be;
     Miserere Domine!”

Recovering from his stupor, Adrian regained the brethren, and, as they closed the burthen of their song, again accosted them.

“Holy fathers, dismiss me not thus.  Perchance the one I seek may yet be heard of at the convent.  Tell me which way to shape my course.”

“Disturb us not, son,” said the monk who spoke before.  “It is an ill omen for thee to break thus upon the invocations of the ministers of Heaven.”

“Pardon, pardon!  I will do ample penance, pay many masses; but I seek a dear friend—­the way—­the way—­”

“To the right, till you gain the first bridge.  Beyond the third bridge, on the riverside, you will find the convent,” said another monk, moved by the earnestness of Adrian.

“Bless you, holy father,” faltered forth the Cavalier, and spurred his steed in the direction given.  The friars heeded him not, but again resumed their dirge.  Mingled with the sound of his horse’s hoofs on the clattering pavement, came to the rider’s ear the imploring line—­

“Miserere Domine!”

Impatient, sick at heart, desperate, Adrian flew through the street at the full speed of his horse.  He passed the marketplace—­it was empty as the desert;—­the gloomy and barricadoed streets, in which the countercries of Guelf and Ghibeline had so often cheered on the Chivalry and Rank of Florence.  Now huddled together in vault and pit, lay Guelf and Ghibeline, knightly spurs and beggar’s crutch.  To that silence the roar even of civil strife would have been a blessing!  The first bridge, the riverside, the second, the third bridge, all were gained, and Adrian at last reined his steed before the walls of the convent.  He fastened his steed to the porch, in which the door stood ajar, half torn from its hinges, traversed the court, gained the opposite door that admitted to the main building, came to the jealous grating, now no more a barrier from the profane world, and as he there paused a moment to recover breath and nerve, wild laughter and loud song, interrupted and mixed with oaths, startled his ear.  He pushed aside the grated door, entered, and, led by the sounds, came to the refectory.  In that meeting-place of