"Monsieur, c'est l'enterrement d'une étrangère. Une Italienne, l'on dit: Madame Varsini."
"Oh, William! do they bury her already?" was Mary's shocked remonstrance. "It was only yesterday at midday the sister came to you to say she had died. What a shame!"
"Hush, love! Many of the people here understand English. They bury quickly in these countries."
They stood on the pavement, and the funeral came quickly on. One black banner borne aloft in a man's hand, two boys in surplices with lighted candles, and the priest chanting with his open book. Eight men, in white corded hats and black cloaks, bore the coffin on a bier, and there was a sprinkling of impromptu followers—as there always is at these foreign funerals. As the dead was borne past him on its way to the cemetery, William, following the usage of the country, lifted his hat, and remained uncovered until it had gone by.
And that was the last of Bianca Varsini.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE DOWNFALL OF THE DARES.
It was a winter's morning, and the family party round the breakfast table at William Halliburton's looked a cheery one, with its adjuncts of a good fire and good fare. Mr. and Mrs. Ashley and Henry were guests. And I can tell you that in Mr. Ashley they were entertaining no less a personage than the high sheriff of the county.
The gentlemen nominated for sheriffs, that year, for the county of Helstonleigh, whose names had gone up to the Queen, were as follows:—