A train of monks, in purple robes embroidered with white crosses, appeared in procession, slowly advancing on the tesselated pavement, bearing on tressels, covered with dark pall, a corse, by the muffled outline, of manly stature. Two female figures; grave servitors, with deep reverence supporting them, followed close the dead. The deep thunder tones of the huge organ, swept upward as they entered, wild, grand, and terrible, as if touched by no earthly hand: scarce audible sounds floating from the smallest pipes would catch the ear—then bursts, like the roaring whirlwind, pouring in the whole mass of trumpets, rolling, and rising, and falling,—the most exquisite symphonies floating in the intervals, until fainter, fainter, the heart sickened in efforts to catch its tones. Dead silence followed:—the corse was deposited in the chancel—the dark black pall was slowly withdrawn, and the noble figure of a cavalier in the bloom of manhood, pallid in death, lay exposed before us. Clad in sable velvet, his rapier rested on his extended body, the jewelled cross-hilt reverently enclosed in his clasped hands, as they met upon his broad chest, while the luxuriant raven hair, parted on the high forehead, the dark arched eye-brow, and the glossy moustache curling on the lip, added deeper pallor, to what appeared deep, deep sleep. The servitors withdrew, and the mother and the daughter advanced to the last sight of him that was so generous, so kind, so beautiful—their all. The thick veil, thrown hastily aside, discovered the furrowed, time-worn, grief-worn features of the mother, convulsively writhe and work, as, sinking at its head, her lips pressed in uncontrollable agony the damp cold white forehead. The sister, clad in robes of purest whiteness, her golden ringlets dishevelled and floating around her, and in their rich luxuriance, almost hiding her graceful form, bent o’er him; and as her gaze met not the answering smile of kindness and protection, to which from infancy it was wont, but the stern, calm, sharpened features, in their icy stillness; then, as with frantic sobs, her exquisitely feminine, almost childish countenance, streaming with tears, was lifted upwards, and her hands wringing with anguish,—then uttered in deep convulsive bitterness, that “_Ai Jesus!_” in smothered tones, again struck upon my startled ear. Long silence followed, unbroken save by sobs, as, sunk by its side, they embraced the still, unconscious ashes. Slowly the deep grave voices of the monks rose in solemn tones, and as their mournful chant sank into deep bass, at intervals was it taken up by a single female voice in the choir, which, high above the organ tones, with surpassing sweetness, ascended higher, higher, until every nook in the lofty arches above, appeared filled and overflowing with the rich melody: then, descending lower—lower—lower—the imagination wildly sought it in the passing wind. The monks drew near with uplifted and