Beppo. Walk but through the corridor, and I will carry thee down the great staircase and through the street and up the hill upon my back. And once there—under the lilac!—Come! (As he helps Monseigneur to struggle to his feet.) Now, then! Give me thine arm. So! Thine round my neck, and mine around thy body—so!—like girls who love each other. (Laughing.) Only we are men! En avant! Marche!
(So they turn, laughing gaily, towards the hangings that mask the corridor; when suddenly is heard sharply and faintly from the courtyard below the brisk challenge of a sentinel—‘Qui va là?’ The boys pause and listen, while gradually nearer and louder each sentinel in turn rapidly repeats it—‘Qui va là?—Qui va là?’—until close outside, at the end of the corridor, a rough, hoarse voice shouts—‘On ne passe pas!’ Follows the dash of steel, and a short, sharp cry of terror. Then complete silence.)
Monseigneur (in a frightened whisper). Beppo!
Beppo. But what is it? An alarm? Some thief? A gipsy?
Monseigneur (trembling). Nay, it is Death—for me!
Beppo (with his arms tightly round him). Death?
Monseigneur. He hath broken into the palace. Ah, Lorrain! Lorrain!—false soldier! Beppo! I can feel him—drawing nearer, ever nearer! He is there, behind the hanging. It is Death!
Beppo (whispers). Art thou sure? Shall I look?
Monseigneur. Aye, look. I dare not. (And while Beppo stands there, shaken and undecided:) Darest thou not?
Beppo. Yea, I dare! (With fear in his heart, he marches boldly to the hanging and swiftly withdraws it, the iron rings rattling and rippling sharply backwards along the rod; and behold! the wall of the corridor that faces them appears wondrously illuminated and transfigured into the faint vision of a chapel; and there on a throne, under the dim high altar, the Angel of Death is seated, an austere and lonely figure, just visible under the mild and steady gleam of many a tall candle and hanging sanctuary lamp. There he sits waiting, as though the youthful Michelangelo had carved him there, with the dreadful dart!—And Beppo sees it and screams.) Monseigneur Death! Nay, take me—I beseech thee! Take me—in my brother’s place. I am useless, friendless—a gipsy!—a vagabond!