A dozen or more purchasers came in response to the summons. I took up my station by the open window, and looked into the familiar room, where the buyers were higgling over the various articles to be sold. My mother's Sunday mantle was just then under the hammer—the pretty silk mantle with the silver fastening at the neck. How I wished I were able to put an end to the disgusting higgling, by shouting in the window:
"I'll take the whole lot for a thousand thalers!"
But, alas! there was only a single, miserable thaler in my pocket.
The mantle at last became the property of an old-clothes dealer: he flung it around his shoulders, and made believe to promenade to church. It was a revolting sight! The entire higgling crew laughed uproariously, and clapped their hands. I could endure it no longer, my heart was bursting.
I stepped back to the drummer, and asked:
"Is it long since the old dame died?"
"Not so long but you may find her grave if you care to see it. She is buried in the cemetery on the Templeberg."
"And where is her husband?"
"Well"—and he scratched his ear—"that is a question I am unable to answer: what was immortal about him, is in heaven, or hell, or purgatory—who can say? Flesh, bones and skin, are about to be buried in the earth—just where though, I can't tell you."
"Buried now?" I repeated. "Why, there's no bell tolling for the funeral?"