“Patience.  I must bring you from proof to proof, and link to link, in order to win my reward.  Follow, Signor.”

The Becchino then passing through the several lanes and streets, arrived at another house of less magnificent size and architecture.  Again he tapped thrice at the parlour door, and this time came forth a man withered, old, and palsied, whom death seemed to disdain to strike.

“Signor Astuccio,” said the Becchino, “pardon me; but I told thee I might trouble thee again.  This is the gentleman who wants to know, what is often best unknown—­but that’s not my affair.  Did a lady—­young and beautiful—­with dark hair, and of a slender form, enter this house, stricken with the first symptom of the Plague, three days since?”

“Ay, thou knowest that well enough; and thou knowest still better, that she has departed these two days:  it was quick work with her, quicker than with most!”

“Did she wear anything remarkable?”

“Yes, troublesome man:  a blue cloak, with stars of silver.”

“Couldst thou guess aught of her previous circumstances?”

“No, save that she raved much about the nunnery of Santa Maria de’ Pazzi, and bravos, and sacrilege.”

“Are you satisfied, Signor?” asked the gravedigger, with an air of triumph, turning to Adrian.  “But no, I will satisfy thee better, if thou hast courage.  Wilt thou follow?”

“I comprehend thee; lead on.  Courage!  What is there on earth now to fear?”

Muttering to himself, “Ay, leave me alone.  I have a head worth something; I ask no gentleman to go by my word; I will make his own eyes the judge of what my trouble is worth,” the gravedigger now led the way through one of the gates a little out of the city.  And here, under a shed, sat six of his ghastly and ill-omened brethren, with spades and pick-axes at their feet.

His guide now turned round to Adrian, whose face was set, and resolute in despair.

“Fair Signor,” said he, with some touch of lingering compassion, “wouldst thou really convince thine own eyes and heart?—­the sight may appal, the contagion may destroy, thee,—­if, indeed, as it seems to me, Death has not already written ‘mine’ upon thee.”

“Raven of bode and woe!” answered Adrian, “seest thou not that all I shrink from is thy voice and aspect?  Show me her I seek, living or dead.”

“I will show her to you, then,” said the Becchino, sullenly, “such as two nights since she was committed to my charge.  Line and lineament may already be swept away, for the Plague hath a rapid besom; but I have left that upon her by which you will know the Becchino is no liar.  Bring hither the torches, comrades, and lift the door.  Never stare; it’s the gentleman’s whim, and he’ll pay it well.”

Turning to the right while Adrian mechanically followed his conductors, a spectacle whose dire philosophy crushes as with a wheel all the pride of mortal man—­the spectacle of that vault in which earth hides all that on earth flourished, rejoiced, exulted—­awaited his eye!