Lengthened and repeated rounds of cannon rolled
along the air. The solemn march of the dead was moaning from the
muffled drum, interrupted at measured pauses by the shrill tremor of
the fife. The troops, preceded by their general, moved forward with a
decent and melancholy step. The Bishop of Warsaw followed, bearing
the sacred volume in his hands; and next, borne upon the crossed
pikes of his soldiers, and supported by twelve of his veteran
companions, appeared the body of the brave Sobieski. A velvet pall
covered it, on which were laid those arms with which for fifty years
he had asserted the loyal independence of his country. At this sight
the sobs of the men became audible. Thaddeus followed with a slow but
firm step, his eyes bent to the ground and his arms wrapped in his
cloak; it was the same which had shaded his beloved grandfather from
the dews of that dreadful night. Another train of solemn music
succeeded; and then the squadrons which the deceased had commanded
dismounted, and, leading their horses, closed the procession.
On the verge of the plain that borders Biala, and within a few paces
of the convent gate of St. Francis, the bier stopped. The monks
saluted its appearance with a requiem, which they continued to chant
till the coffin was lowered into the ground. The earth received its
sacred deposit. The anthems ceased; the soldiers, kneeling down,
discharged their muskets over it; then, with streaming cheeks, rose
and gave place to others.
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