At length he entered a saloon, in which was a table still spread with wine-flasks, goblets of glass, and one of silver, withered flowers, half-mouldy fruits, and viands.  At one side the arras, folding-doors opened to a broad flight of stairs, that descended to a little garden at the back of the house, in which a fountain still played sparkling and livingly—­the only thing, save the stranger, living there!  On the steps lay a crimson mantle, and by it a lady’s glove.  The relics seemed to speak to the lover’s heart of a lover’s last wooing and last farewell.  He groaned aloud, and feeling he should have need of all his strength, filled one of the goblets from a half-emptied flask of Cyprus wine.  He drained the draught—­it revived him.  “Now,” he said, “once more to my task!—­I will sally forth,” when suddenly he heard heavy steps along the rooms he had quitted—­they approached—­they entered; and Adrian beheld two huge and ill-omened forms stalk into the chamber.  They were wrapped in black homely draperies, their arms were bare, and they wore large shapeless masks, which descended to the breast, leaving only access to sight and breath in three small and circular apertures.  The Colonna half drew his sword, for the forms and aspects of these visitors were not such as men think to look upon in safety.

“Oh!” said one, “the palace has a new guest today.  Fear us not, stranger; there is room,—­ay, and wealth enough for all men now in Florence!  Per Bacco! but there is still one goblet of silver left—­how comes that?” So saying, the man seized the cup which Adrian had just drained, and thrust it into his breast.  He then turned to Adrian, whose hand was still upon his hilt, and said, with a laugh which came choked and muffled through his vizard—­“Oh, we cut no throats, Signor; the Invisible spares us that trouble.  We are honest men, state officers, and come but to see if the cart should halt here tonight.”

“Ye are then—­”

“Becchini!”

Adrian’s blood ran cold.  The Becchino continued—­“And keep you this house while you rest at Florence, Signor?”

“Yes, if the rightful lord claim it not.”

“Ha! ha!  ‘Rightful lord!’ The plague is Lord of all now!  Why, I have known three gallant companies tenant this palace the last week, and have buried them all—­all!  It is a pleasant house enough, and gives good custom.  Are you alone?”

“At present, yes.”

“Shew us where you sleep, that we may know where to come for you.  You won’t want us these three days, I see.”

“Ye are pleasant welcomers!” said Adrian;—­“but listen to me.  Can ye find the living as well as bury the dead?  I seek one in this city who, if you discover her, shall be worth to you a year of burials!”

“No, no! that is out of our line.  As well look for a dropped sand on the beach, as for a living being amongst closed houses and yawning vaults; but if you will pay the poor gravediggers beforehand, I promise you, you shall have the first of a new charnel-house;—­it will be finished just about your time.”