"DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA,
SOLVET SÆCULUM IN FAVILLA."
The deep cowl that veiled the head of each grey brother gave a singular appearance to the throng, and the peculiarly wild effect of their harmony was heightened by the solemn hour and the moonlight.
"What ghostly looking figures!" I muttered to my uncle.
"Ay! Charon multiplied by forty. How I hate these doleful Gregorians! Let us stop these sandalled friars, and ask—if indeed they will be so condescending as to tell us—who it is that has received his Nunc Dimittis."
As the train came abreast of us, my uncle stepped forward and lifted his hat to the monks, who at once stopped both their march and their requiem.
"Pardon the curiosity of a stranger," he said, addressing the leading brother: "may we ask the reason of this midnight procession?"
The monk regarded the questioner with a look that seemed to ask what business it was of his; but, verbally courteous, he replied:
"Pax vobiscum, mi fili. We mourn one who but a few hours ago was alive. Now—sic est voluntas divina—he is no more."
"How came he by his death?"