At one and another of them groups of persons, gravely clad, were making their bargains before starting for some perhaps distant spot on the highway, to keep a dies rosationis, this being the time of roses, at the grave of a deceased relation.

Here and there, a funeral procession was slowly on its way, in weird contrast to the gaiety of the hour.
The two companions, of course, read the epitaphs as they strolled along.

In one, reminding them of the poet's--Si lacrimae prosunt, visis te ostende videri!--a woman prayed that her lost husband might visit her dreams.

Their characteristic note, indeed, was an imploring cry, still [143] to be sought after by the living.

"While I live," such was the promise of a lover to his dead mistress, "you will receive this homage: after my death,--who can tell ?"--post mortem nescio.