And we fell upon our knees by the bed, and he spread forth his hands and said in a clear voice:  “The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and be merciful unto you.”

And then he sighed deeply, and his hands fell, and Dame Giovanna closed his eyes.

Yea!  Death had come easy to this simple soul.  Never knew I any man who gave so much out of a little, and never have I seen a happier or more peaceful face on a death-bed.

My grand-uncle’s burial was grand and magnificent.  All the town-council, and many of the nobles joined in the funeral-train.  Bells tolling and priests chanting, crape, tapers, incense and the rest of it—­we had more than enough of them all.  Only one thing was lacking, namely, tears—­not those of the hirelings who attended it, but such as fall in silence from a sorrowing eye.

In the Im Hoffs’ great house all was silence till the burying was done; up in the tower, where old Adam Heyden lay asleep, the bells rang out as they did every day, for wedding and christening, for mass and mourning; yet by the low door which led to the narrow turret-stair I saw a crowd of little lads and maids with their mothers; and albeit the leaves were off the trees and the last flowers were frozen to death, many a child had found a green twig or carried a little bunch of everlasting flowers in its little hand to lay on the bier of that kind old friend.  It was all the sacristan could do to keep away the multitudes who were fain to look on his face once more; and when he was borne to the grave-yard, not above two hours after my grand-uncle, there was indeed a wondrous great following.  The snow was falling fast in the streets, and the fine folks who had attended him to the grave were soon warming themselves at home after the burying of old Im Hoff.  But there came behind Adam Heyden’s bier many right honest and respected folk, and a throng, reaching far away, of such as might feel the wind whistling cold through the holes in their sleeves and about their bare heads.  And among these was there many a penniless woman who wiped her eyes with her kerchief or her hand, and many a widow’s child, who tightened its little belt as it saw him who had so often given it a meal carried to the grave.

ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: 

Marred their best joy in life by over-hasty ire
Misfortunes never come singly

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