Toil! toll! toll! toll!—a sound to set the soul, as well as the teeth, on edge; a peal worthy of Satan himself.
All at once it ceased, with a last quivering jangle of moribund moaning notes.
Baptisto released the rope, took off his hat, and taking out his handkerchief, quietly wiped his brow; then, turning his dark eyes as if by accident towards the door, he perceived the minister.
He did not seem at all surprised, but sighed heavily, and turned up the whites of his eyes; then with a bow of profound respect, he advanced. In his suit of deep black, bound up with crape, and his high hat, crape-bound also, he looked like a highly respectable English undertaker. The resemblance was complete when he put his snow-white handkerchief to his mouth, and coughed solemnly behind it.
“In Heaven’s name, man, what are you about?” cried Santley, aghast.
Baptisto sighed again, turned up his eyes, and shook his head dismally.
“Senor,” he replied in a low voice, “I was ringing the chapel bell.”
“So I heard. But why?” the clergyman demanded.
“Hush! not so loud, senor,” he said, sinking his voice still lower. “Respect our sorrow!”
Santley’s astonishment increased, and he gazed wildly at Baptisto.