The six friends remained overcome with grief. They hesitated to put the cover in its place, fascinated by that infinite smile. Stelio Effrena heard a light rustling, and looked up. He saw the white face bending over the body, a superhuman apparition of love and grief. That instant was like eternity. The woman disappeared.
When the coffin was closed, they lifted their burden a second time—heavier now. Out of the room and down the stairs they bore it slowly. Rapt in a kind of sublime anguish, they could see their fraternal faces reflected in the polished metal.
The funeral barge awaited them at the entrance. The pall was laid over the coffin. The six friends waited, with heads uncovered, for the family to descend. They came, all together. The widow passed them, veiled. But the splendor of her face would remain in their memories forever.
The procession was short; the funeral barge went first, followed by the widow with her relatives; then came the young men. The sky was cloudy above the broad road of stone and water. The deep silence was worthy of Him who transformed the forces of the universe for man's worship into infinite song.
A flock of doves, flying from the marbles of the Scalsi, winged their way with a flash of plumage above the bier and across the canal, circling the cupola of San Simeone.
At the quay a silent gathering of faithful friends was waiting. The large wreaths perfumed the air. The water rippled softly under the prows of the boats. The six companions lifted the coffin from the boat and bore it on their shoulders to the railway and placed it in the proper compartment. No one spoke.
Then the two artisans from Rome came forward, with the clusters of laurel gathered on the Janiculum. They were tall, powerful men, chosen among the strongest and finest, and seemed cast in the mold of the ancient Roman race. They were calm and serious, with all the wild freedom of the Agro in their eyes. Their bold outlines, narrow foreheads, short curling hair, solid jaws and bull-necks, recalled the profiles of ancient consuls. Their bearing, free from any servile obsequiousness, showed them to be worthy of their function.
The six young men, rendered equal in their fervor, took the branches of laurel and strewed them over the hero's coffin.
Noble were those Latin laurels, cut on the hill where, in a time long past, the eagles descended bearing prophecies; where, in more recent though still fabulous times, a river of blood has been shed for the beauty of Italy by the legions of the Liberator. The branches were straight, dark, and strong; the leaves were firm, deeply veined, with sharp edges, green as the bronze of fountains, rich with triumphal aroma.