Serlio. The Chian! Hee!
None's like the Chian! and to-morrow, meat!
Last week old Ugo died and we had pheasant.
Hilarion. When we are priests we'll give no comforting
To wife or maid—till we have sipped!
Serlio. And supped!
Though 'tis a Friday and the Pope is dead!
[Silence. They work faster.
Hilarion. There, it is done. Now to the image.
[Mounts pillar.
Serlio. Well,
Olympio, the cock who fetched us, said
That image fell first on the day——
Hilarion. Tchuck! tchuck!
Better no breath about that lord of Paphos,
Or any here. For till the dead are three
Days gone, you know—! But there's the woman. Feign.
[As Alessa re-enters; hypocritically.
The blessed dead! in Purgatory may
They briefly bide.