“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.”
“There!” said Adrian, flinging the wretches a few pieces of gold—“there! and if you would do me a kinder service, leave me, at least while living; or I may save you that trouble.” And he turned from the room.