notoriously evoked in these parts on each Walburga's Eve to purchase
recreations which squeamishness leaves undescribed.

For five years now Tiburce d'Arnaye had lain there. Florian thought of
his dead comrade and of the love which had been between them--a love more
perfect and deeper and higher than commonly exists between men--and the
thought came to Florian, and was petulantly thrust away, that Adelaide
loved ignorantly where Tiburce d'Arnaye had loved with comprehension.
Yes, he had known almost the worst of Florian de Puysange, this dear lad
who, none the less, had flung himself between Black Torrismond's sword
and the breast of Florian de Puysange. And it seemed to Florian unfair
that all should prosper with him, and Tiburce lie there imprisoned in
dirt which shut away the color and variousness of things and the
drollness of things, wherein Tiburce d'Arnaye had taken such joy. And
Tiburce, it seemed to Florian--for this was a strange night--was
struggling futilely under all that dirt, which shut out movement, and
clogged the mouth of Tiburce, and would not let him speak; and was
struggling to voice a desire which was unsatisfied and hopeless.

"O comrade dear," said Florian, "you who loved merriment, there is a
feast afoot on this strange night, and my heart is sad that you are not
here to share in the feasting. Come, come, Tiburce, a right trusty
friend you were to me; and, living or dead, you should not fail to make
merry at my wedding."

Thus he spoke. White mists were rising, and it was Walburga's Eve.

So a queer thing happened, and it was that the earth upon the grave
began to heave and to break in fissures, as when a mole passes through
the ground. And other queer things happened after that, and presently