Caput, usually an exemplar in the matter of decorum, was now tempted to a quotation as irreverent as the saucy girl’s comment.
“‘Each of the good friars in his turn, enjoys the luxury of a consecrated bed, attended with the slight drawback of being forced to get up long before day-break, as it were, and make room for another lodger.’”
“Miriam’s model, known to the friars as Brother Antonio, was buried in the farthest recess,” said I, leading the way to it. “Do you remember that he lay in state before the altar up-stairs when she and Donatello visited the church? And how the guide explained that a brother, buried thirty years before, had risen to give him place? That is probably the ejected member.”
The worthy designated wore an air of grim jollity, of funereal festivity, indescribable and irresistible. Dangling by the middle from his hempen girdle, his head on one shoulder, his cowl awry, he squinted at us out of its shadow with a leer that would have convicted of drunkenness anybody less holy than a barefoot friar, and less staid of habit than a skeleton of fifty years’ standing. Struggling to maintain composure, I accosted the sacristan. He was standing with his back to us, looking out of the window, and had certainly not seen our smiles.
“Which of these was disinterred last?”
He pointed to one whose robe was less mouldy than the rest, and upon whose chin yet bristled the remnant of a sandy beard.
“Which was his grave?”
Another silent gesture.
“What is the date of the latest interment?”
“1869,” incisively.