"Rather badly of late. The people of Ormsby seem to live longer than they used to do."
"I am afraid my brother is partly responsible for that," said Beatrice demurely. "It is his business to oppose yours, you see."
"No one seems to want a tombstone nowadays," continued the man gloomily. "However, I had a little work put in my way yesterday by Mademoiselle Rivière."
"Mademoiselle Rivière!" echoed Beatrice in surprise. "What order has she given you?"
"You have perhaps heard that more than twenty years ago an unknown vessel was wrecked in Ormsby Race. Four bodies only were washed ashore, and these were buried in a corner of St. Oswald's churchyard. Mademoiselle Rivière has obtained permission of the Rector to place a marble cross over their grave."
"Did she say why she takes such an interest in these drowned men?" asked Beatrice.
"Well, as to that I was a little bit curious myself, and so I could not help putting a question or two. Mademoiselle said she had good reason for believing that the lost vessel was French: and being French herself she felt a desire to honour their grave. If you will step inside, I will show you what she has chosen."
Idris, who felt a strange interest in Mademoiselle Rivière, required no second bidding, and with Beatrice entered the workshop, where the mason exhibited with manifest pride a cross of Sicilian marble, standing on a base of the same material. This pedestal was wrought in the shape of a rock, and decorated with seaweed and an anchor.
"What is the epitaph to be?" asked Idris, after some words complimentary to the mason's skill.
The man produced a paper upon which was written, in the same delicate, flowing penmanship that had adorned the margin of the Lombard historian, the following words:—