In spite of the cold and snow, Isabelle and Serafina sprang to the ground to meet them, but the duenna did not leave her seat--with age had come apathy, and selfishness had never been wanting.

When they saw poor Matamore stiff and motionless, and were told that he was dead, the two young women were greatly shocked and moved, and Isabelle, bursting into tears, raised her pure eyes to heaven and breathed a fervent prayer for the departed soul.
And now came the question, what was to be done?
The village for which they were bound was still a league away; but they could not stay where they were all night, and they decided to go on, even if they had to abandon the chariot and walk--anything would be better than freezing to death like poor Matamore.

But after all, things were not at such a desperate pass as they supposed; the long rest, and a good feed of oats that Scapin had been thoughtful enough to give their tired horse, had so revived the poor old beast that he seemed to be ready and willing to go forward again--so their most serious difficulty was removed.

Matamore's body was laid in the chariot, and carefully covered with a large piece of white linen they fortunately happened to have among their heterogeneous belongings, the women resumed their seats, not without a slight shudder as they thought of their ghastly companion, and the men walked--Scapin going in front with the lantern, and Herode leading the horse.

They could not make very rapid progress, but at the end of two hours perceived--oh, welcome sight!--the first straggling houses of the village where they were to spend the night.