long black cloaks. The vehicle itself, fashioned like an open hearse,
and of the same sombre colour, relieved by fantastical designs, painted
in white, emblematic of the pestilence, was drawn by a horse of the
large black Flanders breed, and decorated with funeral trappings. To
Leonard's inexpressible horror, the cart again stopped opposite him, and
the driver ringing his bell, repeated his doleful cry. While another
coffin was brought out, and placed with the rest, a window in the next
house was opened, and a woman looking forth screamed, "Is Anselm
Chowles, the coffin-maker, there?"

"Yes, here I am, Mother Malmayns," replied one of the men in black
cloaks, looking up as he spoke, and exhibiting features so hideous, and
stamped with such a revolting expression, that Leonard's blood curdled
at the sight. "What do you want with me?" he added.

"I want you to carry away old Mike Norborough," replied the woman.

"What, is the old miser gone at last?" exclaimed Chowles, with an
atrocious laugh. "But how shall I get paid for a coffin?"

"You may pay yourself with what you can find in the house," replied
Mother Malmayns; "or you may carry him to the grave without one, if you
prefer it."

"No, no, that won't do," returned Chowles. "I've other customers to
attend to who _will_ pay; and, besides, I want to get home. I expect
friends at supper. Good-night, Mother Malmayns. You know where to find
me, if you want me. Move on, Jonas, or you will never reach Saint
Sepulchre's."