The
weather was now good, now bad."
"Yes?"
"He arrived at our Hospice the day before yesterday, and, having
refreshed himself with sleep on the floor before the fire, wrapped in his
cloak, was resolute to go on, before dark, to the next Hospice. He had a
great fear of that part of the way, and thought it would be worse
to-morrow."
"Yes?"
"He went on alone. He had passed the gallery when an avalanche--like
that which fell behind you near the Bridge of the Ganther--"
"Killed him?"
"We dug him out, suffocated and broken all to pieces! But, monsieur, as
to Madame. We have brought him here on the litter, to be buried. We
must ascend the street outside. Madame must not see. It would be an
accursed thing to bring the litter through the arch across the street,
until Madame has passed through. As you descend, we who accompany the
litter will set it down on the stones of the street the second to the
right, and will stand before it. But do not let Madame turn her head
towards the street the second to the right. There is no time to lose.
Madame will be alarmed by your absence. Adieu!"
Vendale returns to his bride, and draws her hand through his unmainied
arm. A pretty procession awaits them at the main door of the church.
They take their station in it, and descend the street amidst the ringing
of the bells, the firing of the guns, the waving of the flags, the
playing of the music, the shouts, the smiles, and tears, of the excited
town.
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