Flowed more and more.-"But she was beautiful!'
Replied a soldier of the Pontiff's guard.
'And innocent as beautiful!' exclaimed
A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round
With garlands, holy pictures, and what not?
Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs displayed
In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke;
And I accosted her to hear her story.

The stab,' she cried, 'was given in jealousy;
But never fled a purer spirit to heaven,

As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads,
When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk,
When on her way from vespers None were near,
None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept,
But what could tears avail him, when she fell -
Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine,
Just by the fountain-that before the church,
The church she always used, St. Isidore's
Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth,
That excellent lady. Ever would she say,
Good even, as she passed, and with a voice.
Gentle as theirs in heaven!'-But now by fits
A dull and dismal noise assailed the ear,
A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet;
And now a strange fantastic troop appeared!
Thronging, they came as from the shades below;
All of a ghostly white! Oh say,' I cried,

'Do not the living here bury the dead?

Do Spirits come and fetch them? What are these,
That seem not of this World, and mock the Day;
Each with a burning taper in his hand?'-
'It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest.