How she came by such sudden death there was nothing whatever in her appearance to tell—­scarcely anything to tell that she was dead.  In a quiet composed attitude stretched on her back, she lay in the light white dress she had put on for her excursion with Ludovico.  With the exception of a broad blue ribbon round the waist, and another which bound her wealth of auburn hair, her entire dress was white.  It was now scarcely whiter than her face.  But there was on the features neither disorder nor sign of pain.

From a feeling of natural respect for death, and perhaps, also, for the extreme beauty of the young face in death, the bearers of the body had covered it with a coarse linen sheet, such as they had chanced to find to hand.  But the duty of the officers of the gate would have required them to uncover the face, even if Ludovico in the first agony of his doubt had not already done so.  There, amid the pitying throng of rough men, she lay beneath the sombre old gateway vault.  The extraordinary abundance of her hair fell in great loose tresses, some making rich contrast with the white dress that covered her shoulders, and some of it thrown back behind over the door on which the body lay.

A terrible and deadly sickness came over Ludovico, and his face became almost as white as that of the corpse.  His head swam round; and, reeling back from the sight that met his eyes, he swooned, and would have fallen to the ground had the lawyer not caught him.

“I suppose,” said Fortini, to the men who crowded round the body, while he paid attention to the Marchesino,—­“I suppose that there can be no doubt that she is dead?”

“She’s as dead as the door she lies on,” said one of the men who had helped to carry the body, shaking his head gravely, as he looked pitifully down on her; “as dead as the door she lies on, more’s the pity, for she looks like one of them that find it good to live,—­ more’s the pity,—­more’s the pity.”

“Che bella donna!  E proprio un viso d’angiolo,” said another; “and so young too.  There’s some heart somewhere that’ll be sore for this.”

“Pretty creature; it is enough to break one’s own heart to look at her as she lies there,” said a third.  While a fourth of the rough fellows stood and sobbed aloud, and let the tears run down his furrowed cheeks, without the smallest effort to control or hide his emotion.  For an Italian, especially an Italian man of the people, unlike the men of the Teuton races, is never ashamed of emotion.  He very often manifests a great deal which he does not genuinely feel; but he never seeks to hide any that he does feel.