I, soft soul, would not commit another crime to gain my bread, for Clara was still at my heart with her sweet eyes; so, limiting my rogueries to the theft of a beggar's rags, which I compensated by leaving him my galley attire instead, I begged my way to the town where I left Clara.

It was a clear winter's day when I approached the outskirts of the town.

I had no fear of detection, for my beard and hair were as good as a mask.

Oh, Mother of Mercy! there came across my way a funeral procession! There, now you know it; I can tell you no more.

She had died, perhaps of love, more likely of shame.