The tomb looked scarcely less forbidding and gloomy in the daytime than it did at night, with its massive-looking architecture, and the stern-faced angel guarding the iron door. Advancing through the long grass which grew all round it, I looked every where for a name, but could find none, then tried to open the iron door, to the great dismay of Peppino.
"Signore," he said in a faltering voice, "do not let out the ghosts."
"There are no ghosts here, Peppino. They have all departed," I replied, finding the door locked.
"Dio! I'm not so sure of that, Illustrious. Many dead are in there."
"Oh, they've been dead so long that their ghosts must have grown weary of this gloomy sepulchre."
"Yes, Signore, but the ghost of the mad Count buried last year!"
"Oh!" I cried with lively curiosity, "is this the vault where he was buried?"
"Yes, Illustrious!"
"And the name, Peppino? What was his name?"
The little Italian looked perplexed, as he could not understand the interest I took in this sepulchre; still, seeing I was in earnest, he tried to think of the name, but evidently could not recall it.