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"That he is," said Don Abbondio; "I have often heard him spoken

of as an excellent lord. But is it really true that--"

"Will you believe your sexton?"

"Why--"

"Because he saw him with his own eyes. Will you hear Ambrose? I

made him wait without expressly."

Renzo called the sexton, who confirmed the intelligence.

"Ah, he is dead then! he is really gone!" said Don Abbondio. "You

see, my children, the hand of Providence. It is a happy thing for

this poor country: we could not live with this man. The plague

has been a great scourge, but it has also been, as it were, a

serviceable broom; it has swept off certain people, of whom, my

children, we could never have delivered ourselves. In the

twinkling of an eye they have disappeared by the hundred. We

shall no longer see him wandering about with that haughty air,

followed by his cut throats, and looking at every body as if they

were all placed on earth for his pleasure. He is gone, and we are

still here! He will send no more messages to honest people. He

has made us all pass a sad life; and now we are at liberty to say

so."