Instantly they retreated, lowering their shields.
"I beg your pardon," said Fitzgerald in French.
"It is of no consequence," replied the stranger, laughing.

"This is always a devil of a corner on a windy day." His French had a slight German twist to it.
Briefly they inspected each other, as strangers will, carelessly, with annoyance and amusement interplaying in their eyes and on their lips, all in a trifling moment.

Then each raised his hat and proceeded, as tranquilly and unconcernedly as though destiny had no ulterior motive in bringing them thus really together.

And yet, when they had passed and disappeared from each other's view, both were struck with the fact that somewhere they had met before.
Fitzgerald went into the tomb, his head bared.

The marble underfoot bore the imprint of many shoes and rubbers and hobnails, of all sizes and--mayhap--of all nations.