Don Camillo Monforte landed near the retired graves of the proscribed.
As he wished to ascend the low sand-hills, which have been thrown up by
the waves and the winds of the gulf on the outer edge of the Lido, it
was necessary that he should pass directly across the contemned spot, or
make such a circuit as would have been inconvenient. Crossing himself,
with a superstition that was interwoven with all his habits and
opinions, and loosening his rapier, in order that he might not miss the
succor of that good weapon at need, he moved across the heath tenanted
by the despised dead, taking care to avoid the mouldering heaps of earth
which lay above the bones of heretic or Jew. He had not threaded more
than half the graves, however, when a human form arose from the grass,
and seemed to walk like one who mused on the moral that the piles at
his feet would be apt to excite. Again Don Camillo touched the handle of
his rapier; then moving aside, in a manner to give himself an equal
advantage from the light of the moon, he drew near the stranger. His
footstep was heard, for the other paused, regarded the approaching
cavalier, and folding his arms, as it might be in sign of neutrality,
awaited his nearer approach.
"Thou hast chosen a melancholy hour for thy walk, Signore," said the
young Neapolitan; "and a still more melancholy scene. I hope I do not
intrude on an Israelite, or a Lutheran, who mourns for his friend?"
"Don Camillo Monforte, I am, like yourself, a Christian.
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