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The weather was close, the air heavy, the sky covered by a thick

cloud, or fog, which excluded the sun, without promising rain.

The surrounding country was neglected and sterile; all verdure

extinct, and not a drop of dew on the dry and withering leaves.

The depth, solitude, and silence, so near a large city, increased

the gloom of Renzo's thoughts; he proceeded, without being aware

of it, to the gate Nuova, which had been hid from his view by a

bastion, behind which it was then concealed. A noise of bells,

sounding at intervals, mingled with the voices of men, saluted

his ear; turning an angle of the bastion, he saw before the gate

a sentry-box, and a sentinel leaning on his musket, with a

wearied and careless air. Exactly before the opening was a sad

obstacle, a hand-barrow, upon which two monatti were extending an

unfortunate man, to carry him off; it was the chief of the

toll-gatherers, who had just been attacked by the pestilence.