poetry.

"You must watch for your son's coming and let me know."

"It will be better for you to go yourself," said the old woman; "for I
hardly think that he will answer anybody else."

"Then take me there," said the Lieutenant.

The entire company set out in the direction of the house of mourning,
at the extreme edge of the village. This end of Marisel is so far from
the church that it was night before they reached the house.

The moon had come up behind the mountains: in front of the houses were
fir trees and through their dark needles gleamed its rays. In the
distance was heard the melancholy sound of a shepherd's pipe. The
paid mourner sobbed outside the door. The wreaths swayed in the
breeze. Within lay the beautiful girl, dead, waiting for her restless,
wandering lover. The moonlight fell on her white face.

* * * * *

The people surrounded the house. They crept stealthily through the
courtyard and looked through the window and whispered, "There he is,
there he is!"

The Lieutenant, the priest, the judge and Sanga-moarta's mother
entered the room. Stretched across the threshold lay the girl's
father, dead drunk. In his great sorrow he had drunk so much the day
before that he would hardly sleep it off before another day. In the
middle of the room stood the coffin made of pine, painted with bright
roses by the brush of the village artist; within lay the girl of
barely sixteen years. Her beautiful brow was encircled with a wreath;
in one hand had been placed a wax candle and in the other a small
coin: at the head of the coffin were two wax candles stuck in a jar
covered with gingerbread; at the foot of the coffin on a painted chair
with high back, sat Sanga-moarta, bent over with his eyes fixed on the
girl's face. The priest and the judge remained standing at the door in
superstitious piety. Clement walked up to the youth and at a glance
recognized him as the one who had not been willing to direct him on
his way.

"Hello, young man, so you are the one who does not answer people's
questions?"

The youth verified his words by making no reply.

"Now listen to me and answer what I ask you; I am the Lieutenant of
the district. Do you hear?"

Sanga-moarta gazed in silence at Floriza, lost in melancholy and as
immovable as the dead. His mother, the worthy woman, took him fondly
by the hand and spoke to him by his true name.

"Jova, my son, answer this gentleman. Look at me, I