“This is too hideous!” exclaimed Di Vasari, turning his horse away. Pages are insufficient sometimes to convey that impression which the eye takes in in a moment. But a cry now arose of “Room, room!” and between the double row of beds, jolting carelessly along the corridor, two hospital servants appeared, bearing a long tray—that looked like a shutter with handles to it—covered with a sheet. Out they came, swinging through the hall-door, and descended the steps in front of the building.
“Santa Madonna! it is one of the dead,—a corpse fresh of the plague,—and we stand here!” cried Jacopo.
“Twenty-five this makes!” said the hindmost bearer, stopping, as he came down the stairs, to trim the load in its descent.
“Twenty-seven it makes, if I can count,” returned the other; “and by this time last night, we had thirty-one.”
As he spoke, they reached the bottom of the staircase. In turning the corner, one of the carved ornaments of the balustrade caught the cloth that covered the shutter; and, at the next step—the corpse lay naked!
It was the body of a man—and of a fine one. The plague had evidently made brief work with him. Still robust—almost florid—full of flesh and muscle—no victim of decay—no sign of age or of consumption. The tree had been struck in its full strength! The limbs and the trunk were those of a living man still. But the face was distorted and discoloured; and there was one broad dark badge upon the breast, that showed what it was had done the business.
The bearers never stopped to recover their wretched pall, but shouldered onwards to a small, low, grated door. Jacopo’s eye followed—he knew the place well—it was the door of the dead-house.
The key turned, and the door opened; there was no light within. The two men entered. There was a sound as of some heavy mass falling upon soft ground. It was the fall of a body of flesh and blood, which no other object in the creation falls like; and they returned, in a moment, freed from their burthen. And then a cry arose, to “make haste, and close the hospital gates again;” for the sick were gathering round them, and trying to escape—tumultuous—like lost spirits on the bank of the infernal river!
The crash as the heavy gates were slammed together roused the Chevalier from the stupor in which the scene had plunged him. Slowly pressing his horse with the spur, and followed by his attendant, he again rode forward. They left the ground upon the right hand, which now forms the Piazza di Granduca, passed the high towers of the Duomo, or chief Cathedral; and entered the great thoroughfares of the Porta via de Repoli, and the Via della Scala, intending to cross the river at the Pont St Trinita. But the passage along the south or farther bank of the Arno (as the travellers stood) was now wholly impracticable. This portion of the town had comprehended what was called the Jews’ Quarter; and, on the expulsion of that wretched race, the whole neighbourhood in which they dwelt had been given up to destruction. Their houses had been torn down, and fire laid to their synagogue; and one of the last acts of authority on the part of the government, had been the barricading, as far as possible, and publicly forbidding all passage through, or entrance into, their demesne.