The funeral anthem followed at this point. The village church could boast of an organ, the generous gift of the deceased. The choir sang, in excellent time and tune, one of the most beautiful of funeral melodies,--from the opera "Nebuchadnezzar," with words, of course, adapted to the occasion. Did the lamented Casimir Baradlay hear this opera selection sung over his remains? Administrator Rideghváry gave utterance to this query as he turned to the gentleman at his side. "Didn't he like opera music?" asked the latter. "On the contrary, he was always highly incensed when any such music was introduced into the church service. Indeed, he went so far as to give express directions in his will that no operatic airs should be sung at his funeral." "Are you, then, so familiar with his last will and testament?" inquired the other. But the administrator merely lowered his eyelids and twirled his mustache, implying thereby that he knew more than he cared to admit. The funeral anthem did not close the service. Side by side on the bench near the pulpit sat three priests, who were evidently there for a purpose. When the singing ceased one of them mounted the pulpit. "Are they all three going to preach to us?" asked the administrator's companion, already becoming restless. "No," was the reply; "one of them is the local pastor, who is to offer a prayer at the grave." "Ah, is he the one whose"--but here the two gentlemen fell to whispering so softly to each other that the concluding words of the sentence could not be overheard. "And is the daughter here?" asked one. "Ah, yes, there she is in that corner, dressed in brown, her handkerchief in her hand. A lovely girl, truly!" "Poor child!" whispered another. And, indeed, she was to be pitied, for she seemed little likely ever to see again the one for whom she was weeping. At length the service came to an end, twelve haiduks, splendidly attired, raised the magnificent coffin upon their shoulders, the administrator offered his arm to the widow, and the funeral procession issued from the church and took its way toward the family vault, where yet one last ceremony was to be observed. Upon depositing the remains in their final resting-place, it is customary for the local pastor to offer a prayer for the repose of the departed soul. Many were curious to see and hear the eccentric priest, Bartholomew Lánghy by name, whose duty it was to perform this office. The old preacher was wont to speak in the pulpit like an Abraham-à-Sancta-Clara, and in the county assembly like Lawrence the Club-bearer. After the third hymn a space was cleared for the preacher before the entrance to the vault, where he took his stand with bared head, surrounded by the mourners. On each side of his forehead, which was high and bald, hung a few thin locks of hair; his face was smoothly shaven, as was then the custom in the Church, and the heavy eyebrows over the keen, dark eyes gave his countenance a look of resolute determination.