We two strangers follow the boys.
But here the pall-bearers become puzzled: on the right is an open trench, on the left is an open trench.
“Presence of the Devil! To which grave does this dead belong?” They discuss, they dispute, they quarrel.
From the side of the wall, as if he rose from the sea, appears the grave digger, with his shovel on his shoulder—slouching toward us.
“Ah heigh! Ciò, the grave-digger! Where does this dead belong?”
“Body of Bacchus, what potatoes! Here, in this trench to the right.”
They set down the bier there, gladly. They strip away the coffin’s gay upper garment; they leave but the under-dress of black box, painted to that favor with pitch. They shove it into the grave-digger’s arms, where he stands in the trench, in the soft earth, rich with bones. He lets it slide swiftly to the ground—thump! Ecco fatto!
The two boys pick up the empty bier, and dance merrily away with it to the riva-gate, feigning a little play after the manner of children,—“Oh, what a beautiful dead!”
The eldest of the pleasant ruffians is all the pleasanter for sciampagnin, and can hardly be persuaded to go out at the right gate.
We strangers stay behind a little, to consult with mother spectator— Venetian, this. “Who is the dead man, signore?”