the dead capuchin
the dead monk was clad, as when alive, in the brown woollen frock of the capuchins, with the hood drawn over his head, but so as to leave the features and a portion of the beard uncovered.his rosary and cross hung at his side; his hands were folded over his breast; his feet (he was of a barefooted order in his lifetime, and continued so in death) protruded from beneath his habit, stiff and stark, with a more waxen look than even his face. they were tied together at the ankles with a black ribbon.
the countenance, as we have already said, was fully displayed.it had a purplish hue upon it, unlike the paleness of an ordinary corpse, but as little resembling the flush of natural life.the eyelids were but partially drawn down, and ed the eyeballs beneath; as if the deceased friar were stealing a glimpse at the bystanders, to watch whether they were duly impressed with the solemnity of his obsequies.the shaggy eyebrows gave sternness to the look.miriam passed between two of the lighted candles, and stood close beside the bier.
"my god!"murmured she."what is this?"
she grasped donatello's hand, and, at the same instant, felt him give a convulsive shudder, which she knew to have been caused by a sudden and terrible throb of the heart.his hand, by an instantaneous change, became like ice within hers, which likewise grew so icy that their insensible fingers might have rattled, one against the other.no wonder that their blood curdled; no wonder that their hearts leaped and paused! the dead face of the monk, gazing at them beneath its half-closed eyelids, was the same visage that had glared upon their naked souls, the past midnight, as donatello flung him over the precipice.
the sculptor was standing at the foot of the bier, and had not yet seen the monk's features.
"those naked feet!" said he."i know not why, but they affect me strangely.they have walked to and fro over the hard pavements of rome, and through a hundred other rough ways of this life, where themonk went begging for his brotherhood; along the cloisters and dreary corridors of his convent, too, from his youth upward! it is a suggestive idea, to track those worn feet backward through all the paths they have trodden, ever since they were the tender and rosy little feet of a baby, and (cold as they now are) were kept warm in his mother's hand."as his companions, whom the sculptor supposed to be close by him, made no response to his fanciful musing, he looked up, and saw them at the head of the bier. he advanced thither himself.