LOST IN THE CATACOMBS.--THE ANTIQUARY'S STORY.
The next morning broke dull and cheerless. It had been snowing hard all
night, and was snowing still, and so murky was the atmosphere that the
club was obliged to breakfast by candle-light, and indeed continued to
burn candles till early noon.
Our artist was in despair about the weather, for he reckoned upon a long
sitting from his fair model, and, under the circumstances, painting was
impossible, so he wandered gloomily about the inn like a wild animal in
a cage. Breakfast over, a discussion arose as to what should be the
order of the day. Some voted for cards, others felt inclined for chess,
yet no one felt a very strong longing for any one thing in particular.
It was one of those melancholy days when a man really does not know what
to do with himself. Some yawned and stretched themselves, others gazed
gloomily out into the darkness, until someone suddenly recollected that
it was Mr. Oldstone's turn to tell a story, so without more delay,
chairs were drawn round the fire, Jack Hearty was called for to put on a
fresh log, pipes were lit, and Mr. Oldstone forced into an arm-chair and
pressed to begin his story without further preface.
Our host was invited to remain, but he excused himself on the score of
business. Helen was also called away to help her mother in household
affairs; but this, of course, the club could not hear of, so after some
little parley, she was reluctantly permitted to keep the club company,
as one of the members observed it would be hard indeed to deprive the
club of Helen in such weather, as her face was the only sunshine they
were likely to get all day. Helen smiled somewhat confusedly at this
broad compliment, and then accepted a seat placed for her between
McGuilp and Parnassus.
The company drew nearer to the fire, one of the members giving a
preliminary poke at the log, while Oldstone, after tapping his snuff-box
and taking from its inside a copious pinch of snuff to clear his memory,
threw himself back in his easy-chair, and folding his hands, commenced
his story thus:--
When I was in Rome, many years ago, with my friend and brother
antiquary, Rustcoin, well-known to most of you gentlemen, and especially
to my friend Mr. Vandyke McGuilp. We had put up together during the
early part of our stay in a large Hotel in a fashionable quarter of the
city.
We were both young then, and furnished with ample means for travelling.
It had been the dream of my youth to visit the eternal city, and here I
found myself, free for the first time in my life to wander about to my
heart's content among the venerable ruins of antiquity, the history of
which had so interested me from my boyhood.
Being neither pushed for time nor money, having a comfortable little
income left me upon the death of my parents, I never could make up my
mind to follow any profession in particular, and having from my youth
upwards always had a passion for antiquarian lore, I resolved to make it
the study of my life. Rustcoin was similarly situated to myself, and we
have always pulled wonderfully together. Not a day passed but some
interesting ruin, church, or picture gallery, was explored, a minute
description of which was immediately entered into my diary with a view
to a grand archaeological work which I intended for the press, and which
was afterwards published.
We knew the Vatican by heart, St. Peters, and all the chief churches.
Had visited the Capitol, the Forum, the Palace of the Caesars, the
Colosseum, the baths of Caracalla, of Titus, of Diocletian, the Pantheon
and other antique temples. One sight, however, I had not yet been to
see, and that was the catacombs. They had always had, from my boyhood, a
great fascination for me, those dark, dank, mysterious subterranean
labyrinths excavated by those pious enthusiasts, the early Christians,
to shelter themselves from the persecutions of their pagan tyrants.
Little did their oppressors imagine, I presume, when first a few
straggling fanatics assembled clandestinely under the dark arches they
had hewn for themselves out of the solid rock to carry on their
devotions undisturbed by candle-light, that that little sect would one
day fill the wide world with its followers to the utter extinction of
the old pagan superstitions.
How strange is destiny! Religious faith proved too strong for tyranny.
Persecutions and martyrdoms were of no avail, for still the faith
increased. The very victims of the faith, too, the holy martyrs
magnified into heroes after death, as if in defiance of the old creed.
Well, gentlemen, these facts are as well known to all of you as to
myself, yet such were my reflections as I drove off one morning to visit
the catacombs of Saint Sebastian. But I anticipate. Rising one morning
filled with the idea of exploring these subterranean burial grounds as
far as they extended, though for twelve miles those indefatigable early
Christians have undermined the eternal city, I breakfasted hurriedly,
calculating on my friend's company, but Rustcoin happened to have
business on hand that day, and could not be persuaded to go, so I
determined to start off alone.
A little before starting I accompanied Rustcoin down one of the by
streets to make a call, and whilst, waiting for him to return, I amused
myself by looking into an antiquary's shop window. There were some
ancient Roman coins, some rusty Roman armour, pieces of Etruscan
pottery, antique lamps and fragments of statuary. As I stood gazing at
these curiosities for some considerable time, the antiquary bowed me in,
giving me to understand that I was at liberty to look over the contents
of his shop without being obliged to buy. He saw that I was an
Englishman, and evidently had an eye to business.
He showed me some fragments of Roman tombs bearing a portion of an
inscription, some bronze pans, and other instruments used for
sacrifices, some spearheads, some ancient mosaic, etc., etc. I was soon
attracted by a plate of antique seals, and was poring over them with a
lens.
"Ah, signor," said the man, "I see you appreciate these gems of art.
That ring that you are looking at now was found entire in a place
underground, where the vestal virgins used to be buried alive when
convicted of unchastity."
"What will you take for it?" I asked.
"Well, considering that it is such a fine gem of art, sir, I could not
ask less than four hundred scudi."
"Four hundred scudi!" I exclaimed. "Why, that is four thousand pauls,"
said I.
"Precisely so, signor."
"Come, come," said I, pretending to be more knowing than I actually was.
"I see you take me for an Englishman. Well, if I am an Englishman, I am
one who understands the value of these things, for I have had dealings
before in things of this sort."
Now, I had not the slightest idea of the prices that these articles
fetched, but knowing that it was perfectly necessary to beat down an
Italian in a bargain, I took it for granted that he had asked just
double, and said, "Come, now, without wasting time in further parley, I
will give you the half of what you ask--two hundred scudi and not a jot
more," (being 40 pounds sterling.)
"Impossible, signor," said the man.
"Oh, very well, then," said I, "I wish you a good morning," and I made
towards the door.
"Stay, signor," said the shopman; "let us say three hundred and fifty
scudi; it is dirt cheap, and if I were not in immediate want of money I
would not let it go at such a price."
"No," said I, walking out of the shop; "you know my terms; if you agree
to these, so much the better for you, if not, _Addio_," and off I
walked.
I had got about half way down the street when the man ran out after me.
"Signor, only three hundred scudi; this is for the last time, think of
that! It is a sin to let such a bargain slip."
"No, no," said I, "not even for two hundred and ten. I have said two
hundred scudi, and I even grudge that, yet if you will take it----"
"Not even for two hundred and ten!" repeated the man. "O Gesu Maria!"
added he, slapping his forehead.
"You seem anxious to get rid of it, my friend," said I, half-quizzingly.
"No, signor," replied he, "I can assure you it cuts me to the heart to
part with such a gem, but I am a poor man with a large family, and I
want money, otherwise I would not sell it for three times the amount."
"Well, then, if you want money," said I, dryly, "the best thing you can
do is to assent to my terms, for I shall certainly give no more."
He seemed to reflect a little, and then with a shrug said: "_Ebbene_, as
the signor wishes; but it is a dead loss to me; _you_, signor, are the
winner, not I."
So I paid him the money, and walked off with the ring on my finger the
same that I wear to this day, gentlemen. Here it is. There is no doubt
that it is a very excellent specimen of Graeco-Roman art, and is most
elaborately cut. I have not the slightest doubt, however, that I paid
enough and more than enough for it, for as I followed the man with my
eyes, I noticed an avaricious chuckle on his face, as an Italian shopman
may be supposed to wear at having bamboozled an Englishman.
By this time my friend Rustcoin returned. I showed him my purchase, at
which he went into raptures. I told him that I wished to visit the
catacombs that morning, and therefore could not accompany him further.
He advised me to wait till the morrow, and that we should go together,
but I had inwardly vowed that morning that go I would, and nothing
should prevent me; so telling Rustcoin that we should meet at dinner, I
hailed a carriage and drove off to the church of St. Sebastian.
It is a comparatively modern church, built upon the site of the ancient
basilisk supposed to have been erected by Constantine, and consecrated
by St. Silvester, was renewed by the Pope San Domaso, and since
repeatedly restored, being at length rebuilt in the year 1611.
On my arrival I found several carriages waiting outside. I entered the
church, and there was a party of about a dozen English people, who had
likewise come to visit the catacombs.
I joined the party, and we descended a flight of steps, each of us
bearing in our hands a taper, or rather tall, narrow candle. We were
conducted by a lean, emaciated monk, who looked as if he had lived upon
nothing but by inhaling the damp air of the catacombs. As we descended,
the first object shown us was a bust of St. Sebastian by Bernini, over
the tomb of the saint, and near was an altar under which was interred
the body of St. Lucine.
As we walked along single file through these long dark corridors, the
roofs of which were every now and then so low that we were obliged to
stoop, we were shown the graves of saints and martyrs who had been
entombed within the walls, every now and then arriving at some little
chapel, in the walls of which three or four popes had been buried.
The place where the altar had stood was also carved in the rock. Here we
came across a tomb with an inscription, there upon some rude drawings on
the wall by the early Christians, representing various sacred subjects.
Impatient at having to stand still and listen to the explanation of the
monk who accompanied us and to hear the questions of this knot of
English people, I felt an incontrollable impulse to strike out for
myself into some new track, not meaning to content myself with the mere
fashionable route shown to foreigners.
I considered that I had not come there merely to have a peep at these
subterranean vaults, for the sake of being able to say when I returned
to England that I had seen the catacombs, but intended whilst I was
about it to investigate these mysterious haunts thoroughly and
conscientiously, for the sake of discovering, if possible, some
inscriptions or other relics worthy of note that I might describe in my
great archaeological work, and thus hand my name down to posterity.
The investigation of some unknown region, especially if accompanied by a
spice of danger, has always been with me a passion. I longed to be able
to do something that nobody yet had done. I could not but be aware of
the danger of my resolution to explore these dusky labyrinths without a
guide, yet I prepared myself in a measure against a contingency,
carrying in my pocket an extra roll of paper, in case that which I bore
in my hand should come to an end, and a tinder-box.
Besides this, I had filled my pockets with bread, partly in case of
extreme emergency, to sustain life, and partly to drop in crumbs behind
me as I went to mark the way. I had commenced dropping my breadcrumbs
from the very beginning and making slight excursions by myself, then
turning back to join the party of English.
Once or twice the monk called me back, and as I went and returned
several times, I suppose no notice was taken when I really did strike
out in an unbeaten track. I took an opportunity of starting when a stout
English female was assailing our ascetic friend with trivial questions
in wretched Italian.
Whilst public attention seemed engrossed I started off with my taper
through a long and apparently interminable passage, which I was told led
to Ostia, the ancient sea-port. No one called after me, so I suppose I
was not missed.
On, and still further, on I went, groping my way until I could no longer
hear the voices of the party, nor see the light of their tapers through
the dim arches of the catacombs.
"Would the monk miss me and go in search of me, thus breaking short all
hopes of my exploring expedition?" I asked myself.
To avoid this, or at least to see as much as possible of the forbidden
haunts before I was caught, I walked on fast, not forgetting, however,
to drop my breadcrumbs all the time.
There is a great sameness in all these catacombs, being long, straight,
gloomy passages branching off in all directions, only varied at
intervals with an occasional chapel, barely large enough to hold ten
people crowded together, a simple, roughly-hewn cell in the rock, and
destitute of anything that an antiquarian might be tempted to pocket;
however, whenever I came across an inscription of any interest I
immediately jotted it down in my note-book.
Now, the thought of being lost in these terrible catacombs with the
prospect before me of gradually dying of starvation without the
slightest chance of succour had often occurred to my mind, and was of
all thoughts the most dreadful.
It was a daring thing I was attempting, and I own to experiencing a
slight tremor, which increased the further I advanced. Yet, what had I
to fear? Was I not well provided with tapers and tinder-box? Had I not
marked the way with breadcrumbs besides carrying with me a good-sized
roll to allay hunger in case of emergency? What danger did I incur? So I
stifled my fears and boldly proceeded, passing innumerable tombs of
saints and martyrs, chapels, inscriptions, rude drawings on the wall,
Latin names, etc.
If I still felt any lingering tremor, it was a pleasing fear that only
spurred me on the more, and I had not the slightest inclination to turn
back. The situation was a new one to me, and I experienced from it a new
emotion. Here was I, a solitary individual in the bowels of the earth,
with the gay world above me perfectly unconscious that one of their kind
was burrowing, taper in hand, beneath their very feet, treading in the
footsteps of those enthusiastic workmen who had excavated these vaults,
and which had been untrodden since by foot of man!
What will not an enthusiast go through in the noble pursuit of science?
My stock of bread was now completely exhausted. I had not left a crumb
to satisfy my hunger in case of need, such was my enthusiasm to
penetrate deeply into these unknown regions.
But what matter? When I felt hungry I could return at any time. Had I
not the clue? Thus I said to myself as I sprinkled my last remaining
crumbs behind me. I had now penetrated a very considerable distance into
this abode of the pious dead, when here an unforeseen and terrible
accident befell me. Walking onward and incautiously looking behind me as
I proceeded, I did not observe a flight of steep steps, slippery from
the damp slime that exudes below ground, and that led--where? I never
knew, for suddenly losing my footing, I fell headlong down into a dark
abyss, where I lay stunned and senseless.
How long I remained thus it is impossible to tell, for when I recovered
my senses sufficiently to grope around me, I could recollect nothing,
but I found my head cut and bleeding profusely. I felt the warm blood
trickling down my neck and matting my hair. I tried to stand upon my
feet, but swooned again from loss of blood. I had just presence of mind
when I awoke from my swoon to bind up my head with a handkerchief.
I remained for long on the cold ground in a sitting posture and tried to
collect my ideas. Gradually I became aware of the horror of my
situation. Of course my taper was extinguished by my fall. I essayed to
relight it, but the material was damp with the dews of the catacomb and
with my blood, besides which my strength failed me. I began to feel
hungry, too, for I had eaten but a light breakfast. Could anything have
been more pitiable than my plight? Wounded in the head and weakened with
loss of blood, lost in the very heart of the catacombs without a light,
without the barest prospect of mortal coming to my rescue, hungry, the
little bread that I had taken with me wasted to make a clue which I now
found it impossible to trace in the dark, and with every prospect of a
lingering death before me!
With difficulty I clambered up the steps and searched in vain for the
crumbs of bread on my hands and knees. I was nigh fainting again, but
that strong love of life that is instinctive in us all made me screw up
my nerves with a preternatural energy, and I essayed to shout for help.
Although I must have been aware of the futility of my attempts, we all
know that a drowning man will cling to a straw, so bracing my strength
up to its utmost possible pitch, I gave vent to a superhuman shriek,
which re-echoed through the gloomy arches like the mocking laugh of
demons.
The sound of my own voice in agony amidst the awful silence of this
place of tombs sent a new thrill of horror through my frame, my nerves
being rendered weak and sensitive by the loss of vital fluid I had
sustained, and jarred upon the full consciousness of my terrible
situation. I felt on the brink of madness. Every now and then I heard
the rumbling of carriage wheels over my head, like distant thunder in
the world above me, which enhanced still more the misery of my
position, for I could not help contrasting my lot with that of the happy
individual rolling over my head in his proud carriage, enjoying the
bright sun and blue sky whilst I was doomed to be buried alive in those
horrible catacombs, dying by inches in the greatest conceivable agony of
body and mind, but few feet below that carriage road over which passed
the gay and thoughtless in their fashionable equipages.
I tried to call out again, but my voice failed me. "If I die," I
thought, "it must not be by inches, but at once, at a blow." I was
preparing to dash my head desperately against the wall, and thus put an
end to my misery, but lacking strength, I fell down once more exhausted.
When I again awoke I felt both hungry and thirsty. The wound in my head
had ceased to bleed, but the handkerchief was saturated. I now felt the
calmness of despair. I knew nothing short of a miracle could save me, so
I tried to reconcile myself to my condition. I could just walk, but
slowly. I tried to retrace my steps, though at a snail's pace and
without a clue.
The hopelessness of my condition now dawned upon me more clearly than
ever. It was impossible even to retrace my steps alone and in the dark,
especially in my weakened state. Why should I uselessly try a thing I
knew to be impossible? Why not lie quietly down and die? I sank
helplessly on the ground and gave up all hope. I felt that my end was
not far off, and began to review my past life. The errors, the follies,
the crimes during my brief existence chased each other with painful
vividness and rapidity through my memory. Not even the most trifling
incident of my childhood was forgotten, but every event and thought of
my life vividly, exactly and distinctly, traced with indelible finger
upon the tablets of my brain, passing before my mental vision like a
vast panorama.
It was then that I ventured to pray, and if I never prayed in my whole
life before, I did then. Well can I remember the agony of remorse I felt
for the precious time I had wasted. I was then five and twenty, a
quarter of a century old, and what had I yet done to benefit my fellow
creatures? and what had I not done that lay in my power to gratify my
own selfish wants? Could I call to mind even one _thoroughly_ good act?
Were not even my best actions based upon a sort of selfishness? How I
longed to live over again those five and twenty years!
What resolutions did I not make to turn over a new leaf for the future
if my Creator should be pleased to spare my young life! I prayed
fervently and devoutly, such praying as only the most intense mental
agony can prompt the soul to, until my nervous system, overcome with
excessive tension, I sank into a sort of lethargy, something between
life and death. Emerging at length somewhat from this state, I began to
meditate thus:--
Is it possible that my young life is to be cut short in this manner? Is
this what I was born for--to perish miserably from the ill-consequences
of a foolish though innocent freak--or will the Almighty really hear my
prayer? Have I not prayed fervently with all my heart and soul, and has
He not promised to help those who trust in Him? I _will_ trust in Him. I
will _not_ believe that the age of miracles has gone by never to return.
Miracles are wrought daily, though we do not acknowledge them as such. I
felt a calmness and resignation at these thoughts, and almost
indifferent if the Lord should be pleased to take my soul, or work some
miracle to save me from a lingering death. Either way I would have been
content, for I now felt prepared to die, and had no fear of death.
I endeavoured to keep my faith in the mercy of my Creator firm and
unwavering. If for a moment a slight doubt rose in my mind as to the
likelihood of the Deity working a miracle for my special benefit, it was
instantly dismissed, and I prayed more earnestly. I _would_ believe, I
would _not_ be robbed of my faith by the jeering of that mocking fiend,
Doubt. I persisted in believing, and Doubt fled from me. I _felt_ I
should be saved. I _knew_ it.
While thus meditating, methought that the extreme end of one of these
long corridors had grown a trifle lighter than it was a minute ago. Was
it a mistake, and merely the effect of my eyesight having grown
accustomed to the darkness?
No, for the light now grew rapidly brighter. Could it be that the monks
were coming in search of me?
Yes--no, for I now saw a solitary figure in the distance bearing a
candle, but it was not the figure of a monk, for the garb was white, and
apparently that of a female. I held my breath in wonder and expectation,
whilst my heart thumped so loudly against my ribs that it might have
caused an echo. My eyes were steadfastly fixed on the figure as it moved
slowly towards me. It was undoubtedly the figure of a woman clad in a
long white classic robe and a white head covering, such as worn by the
priestesses of old. The shoulders and arms were bare, and on one arm she
wore a golden armlet, on her feet sandals. She was now sufficiently near
me for me to take a complete survey of her. Her face was pale and
dreadfully emaciated, yet there were traces of great beauty left. She
mumbled something to herself which at first I took for Italian, but on
catching a word or two more, I had no difficulty in discovering it to be
Latin, for she repeatedly muttered to herself the word "Peccavi,"
beating her breast the while. I rose to my feet as she approached. At
first she appeared not to notice me and would have passed me. At length
I addressed her in Italian. "Signora," I began, "I have lost my way in
the dark and am suffering from an accident; perhaps you can show me the
way out of these catacombs, for I am weak and dying of hunger."
The figure gazed blankly at me in silence, which I attributed not so
much to surprise as to her not understanding the language in which I
addressed her. At length she spoke in a faint sepulchral voice.
"_Quis es tu qui in hoc loco versaris?_"
To which I replied in the same classic tongue in which she addressed me.
"_Christianus sum, tu autem quis es?_" I am a Christian, but who art
thou? To which she gave the following account of herself.
"_Virgo Vestalis sum, aut possius eram; nunc autem nec virgo nec
vestalis._"
"_Intelligo_," I answered--I understand--not willing to extort a
confession that might be painful to her, but she seemed communicative
and inclined to enlighten me further.
"_Audi!_" she continued, "_quandam eram in mundo virum amavi.
Christianus erat, et propter meum crimen quod perpetravi cum viro hoc
Christiano, ad mortem damnata viva sepulta fui. Attaman cum ante meam
mortem fuerim ad Christifidem conversa, nunc meus spiritus hac illuc hoc
in loco versatur._"
I expressed my deepest sympathy for her sufferings in the best Latin I
could muster, and indeed I was well able to sympathise with her, for did
not _I_ feel what it was to be buried alive and to endure the gnawing
pangs of hunger?
"Alas, poor ghost!" I felt inclined to say, with Hamlet, and I could not
help muttering to myself, "How hard, alas!--just for one fault, for one
piece of human frailty, resulting from the over tenderness of a woman's
heart, to die such a horrible death."
"_An es estraneus in hoc loco?_" she asked me, having overheard my
soliloquy and perceiving that it was in a foreign tongue.
"_Civis Brittanicus sum_," I replied, and then I began to relate my
history, my misfortunes, and how I had prayed to be delivered from such
a dreadful death, begging her to show me the way out of these horrid
catacombs as soon as possible.
"_Hac conditione_,"--On this condition--she said.
"_Quaenam est?_" What is it? I asked.
She replied thus: "_Annulus quem in digito geris quem quidem circiter
quinque Sestertia valet et meus erat nom habui a viro quem delexi vende
ad levandum meum spiritum._"
Here was a surprise! The ring that I had purchased previously to
starting off for the catacombs belonged and had been worn by the spirit
before me when in the flesh! The man of whom I bought it spoke the truth
then--when he said that it had been found where the vestal virgins used
to be buried alive. What a curious coincidence! Now I was called upon to
sell it again to pay for masses for the poor disembodied spirit, and as
a condition of being set free myself from this dungeon. I was loth to
part with the ring I had paid so highly for, especially now that such an
interesting history was attached to it. Yet, what will not a man do to
save his life?
"_Sic erit_," I replied. It shall be done.
"_Jamnunc sequere me_," said she, beckoning to me with her pale
emaciated finger, which together with the hand and arm was so skinny
that it might have belonged to a skeleton. I followed accordingly, and
was led through many a long corridor, passing many a tomb of martyred
saint, though by a different route to that which I had taken. My guide
walked on before me in silence. That is to say, she did not converse
with me more, but ever to herself I heard the muttered words "_Peccavi!
peccavi!_" beating her breast as she went.
As I followed my guide, my ears suddenly caught the tones of distant
chanting.
"_Quid sibi volunt cantus isti?_" What is the meaning of that singing?
She answered merely by beckoning me on and hastening her steps. The
singing grew more and more distinct, and as we approached I noticed a
dim gleam of light ahead. Then, shortly turning a corner, I found myself
suddenly in a little chapel, like, in appearance, to the rest I had
seen, but lighted up with many candles, and with an altar on which stood
a rudely-carved crucifix, a chalice, etc.
But how shall I describe my horror, consternation, and disgust on
beholding the strange congregation there assembled? It was easy to see
with half an eye that they were no beings of this world. They were
seven, I think, in number; indeed, the chapel had hardly room for more,
and to my dying day, never can I forget that horrible sight. One of
them, who stood at the altar, and who seemed to be the priest, had
evidently been decapitated. He stood upright, holding his head under his
arm.
Another, who was naked with the exception of a cloth round his loins,
was bound to a stake and pierced full of arrows, _a la_ St. Sebastian.
Another, who had been sawn asunder lengthways, was held together by
pieces of rope. One gentleman, who had been skinned alive for the holy
faith, was a most unsightly object, and reminded me of those anatomical
figures you see in doctors' shops. Whenever he moved, the working of his
anatomy was most painfully visible, and he wore his skin over his left
arm like an overcoat.
There was another, who had evidently been burnt, for he was as black as
a cinder, and presented a most woe-begone aspect. A sixth had probably
been torn to pieces by some wild beast, for his flesh bore the print of
talons, and here and there hung in long strips, while a seventh had been
broken on the wheel, and seemed capable of bending his body into the
most impossible positions.
My blood ran cold at such a spectacle, and turning to my guide, I asked
the meaning of this strange sight. She informed me that they were all
spirits of early Christians who had suffered martyrdom.
"Then why," I asked, "are they not in Paradise instead of celebrating
mass here in these catacombs?"
The reason she gave me was that they had all been massacred in their
sin, and their spirits not being yet pure enough to enter the realms of
eternal bliss, they were, like herself, doomed to go through their
religious duties as on earth, until masses should be said for their
deliverance. This, she told me, was her object in leading me here--that
I might see the misery of these wretched spirits, and pray for them. I
promised I would do so, and mass being finished, she introduced me to
the skinned gentleman, whom, she informed me, was her lover. He bowed,
grinned horribly, and offered me his anatomical hand, after which I had
a word with each of the spirits in turn, and then prepared to take my
departure.
"_Ora pro nobis!_" they all cried at once.
"_Sic erit_," I replied, and following my guide once more, she led me
again through many long and dreary passages, which seemed to me
interminable, she walking rapidly in front, whilst I dragged my jaded
limbs considerably in the rear, led on by no other light than the
luminous halo that enveloped her form, and which barely lit up the spot
on which she stood, all else being in pitchy darkness. At length I
thought I felt the ground ascending somewhat, and as I proceeded ever
slowly upwards, I fancied that I saw a ray of sunlight struggling
through a fissure in the rocky roof of the vault. I was not mistaken.
The nearer I came, the larger grew the spot of light, and I now saw
clearly that there was a very considerable opening, amply sufficient to
admit of the body of a very large man passing through it, but quite
overgrown by brambles and rank vegetation, so as effectively to veil the
blue sky from my view. Even through this screen of rank herbage the
light dazzled my eyes intensely, and it was some minutes before I got
sufficiently accustomed to it. The ground now grew suddenly steeper,
till I at length found myself within a few steps of the fissure. My
guide now halted, and pointing to the opening with her hand, made way
for me to pass on in front.
It would seem that the bright sunbeam as it fell upon her affected her
somewhat, for I noticed that her form grew less distinct, until the
vaporous essence that assumed her shape disintegrated piecemeal,
beginning at the head, gradually downwards, till she completely vanished
from my presence. Not, however, before I had time to thank her in her
own classical language.
"_Pro tuis beneficiis gratias ago._"
To which she barely had time to reply "_Vale!_" when she became extinct,
and I was left once more alone.
But now I had hope--I was free. Another step, and I should be launched
into the outer world again. Hungry, thirsty, fatigued as I was, I should
soon be able to satisfy my present wants and then--and then--with all my
young life before me, what might I not achieve? My first feeling was one
of intense gratitude towards my Creator, who had saved me from a
terrible and lingering death. It was like being born again. I advanced
towards the opening, and was just about to move aside the luxuriant
growth that alone separated me from the world without, when methought I
heard human voices outside proceeding from no very long distance from
the aperture. Even a human shadow flitted for a moment across the
opening, obscuring for a second some of the glowing sunlight.
I was loth to emerge from my hiding place into the open air in sight of
men, as, besides startling them, I should myself become an object of
wonderment and create a scene I particularly wished to avoid. So I
resolved to pause awhile until they should presently pass on, when I
could emerge alone and unobserved. In this I was disappointed; they
seemed to have no intention whatever of moving on. There they sat
apparently over their meal, chatting at intervals. It was impossible but
that I should thus overhear some fragments of their conversation, and
what I _did_ hear made my blood run cold.
"Dost remember, Gaspero," said one, "on our last sally, when we captured
the fat landowner from Montefiascone, and sent him back to his friends
with his nose and his ears slit because they wouldn't send the ransom in
time?"
"_Corpo di Bacco!_ don't I?" answered another. "But I'll tell you what,
if the 'Cavalli leggeri' get wind of our whereabouts this time, it will
be short shrift for all of us."
"Bah!" said a third, "haven't we good spies enough always on the alert
to warn us of their approach?"
"True," said the former, "but don't let us talk, or we shall miss the
signal."
Then silence reigned for a brief space, broken now and again by some
casual remark hardly audible. Here was a pretty to do! Had I been
rescued from death by starvation only to stumble upon a nest of
brigands? Oh, the irony of it! I trembled for the loss of the little
gold I had upon me, but more still for the precious ring upon my finger.
"I must risk nothing," I said to myself, "and bide here in patience at
any cost till they depart."
I dreaded lest the beating of my own heart--so audible to myself--should
betray me. Thus a full hour or more passed away, when on a sudden I
heard a sound like the hooting of an owl in the distance.
"The signal--the signal!" exclaimed several voices at once, and up they
jumped like one man and took to their heels with the speed of lightning.
I began to emerge from my cavern, and just managed to catch a glimpse of
some peaked hats, carbines, and sandalled legs, which soon disappeared
for ever from my view. I was now once more under the clear dome of
Heaven. The sky was absolutely cloudless, the heat intense. I shaded my
eyes with my hand to protect them from the glare of the hot sun which
now shone mercilessly down upon my bare head, for my hat had been left
far behind me in that subterranean burial place. I tried to realise my
situation. Where was I? I was in the centre of a very arid plain with
blue mountains on the horizon and lines of ruined aqueducts in the
middle distance. Not a hut within sight. The sun was intolerable, and I
felt ready to faint from hunger and exhaustion. I gathered some broad
green leaves to protect my head, and then looked around me for
something to assuage the pangs of hunger.
I recollected that the brigands had been carousing close to the opening
of my cave, so I returned thither to inspect the spot. To my intense joy
I discovered some broken victuals. There were sundry crusts of bread,
some cheese parings, a few slices of raw ham, a whole leg of a chicken,
besides other bones not quite bare, which I devoured ravenously. Also a
hard-boiled egg and half a flask of good wine. All this I put away in
very short time, but I wanted more. It was barely enough to whet my
appetite. However, I felt better, and could now contemplate my past
adventures with great complacency.
The next question was, in what part of the world was I? Which course
should I steer? North, south, east, or west. I feared being benighted
and losing my way altogether. I sat down on a clump of ancient ruin to
collect my ideas. Presently I heard faintly in the distance the peculiar
cry of a Roman bullock driver, as he goaded on his sluggish team. I
raised my eyes, and saw about half-a-mile off one of those drays drawn
by buffaloes and laden with large blocks of white marble from the
mountains for the use of sculptors. I hastened my steps and hailed the
driver.
"_Accidentaccio!_" cried the man in amazement and horror at the sight of
my bleeding head and general woe-begone appearance.
"What a sight! _Che diavolo!_----"
Here followed a string of questions which I felt in no humour to answer,
so I cut him short by asking him to let me get upon his dray, as I
wanted a little sleep, and that I would remember him as soon as we
arrived at the gates of Rome.
"Certainly, signore," said the man, brightening up, "and if you would
like a covering for your head from the sun----"
Here he produced some sort of light drugget--there was no other
covering, for the dray was only constructed to carry marble and not
passengers.
So I mounted, and flung myself full length on a large block of marble,
covering my head well up and endeavouring to sleep. So complete was my
state of utter exhaustion that even my uncomfortable position and the
rough jolting of the cumbersome dray when its massive wheels encountered
some big stone combined with the constant cry of the driver in my ears
as he goaded on his sluggish brutes of burden, was all insufficient to
prevent nature from taking her proper course, and I actually slept--ay,
slept like a top, spite of heat, dust, flies, noise, etc., until towards
nightfall I reached the gates of Rome. The stars shone out with unusual
splendour. I felt considerably refreshed after my long slumber, so I
descended, and remunerating the driver liberally, entered the eternal
city.
My first thought was to hasten off to a hatter's, where I purchased a
hat, and then called upon a doctor. He was out, so I left my address,
leaving word for him to call at my hotel in the Piazza di Spagna on the
morrow, at ten in the morning. I then repaired to my hotel and heard
that my friend Rustcoin had been inquiring for me, and marvelled much at
my absence. I then had a wash and a brush down, changed the bloodstained
handkerchief for a clean one, and ordered supper in my room.
On the morrow, punctually at ten, the doctor made his appearance. He
examined my wound, prescribed me a lotion, and then asked how the
accident had occurred. In my youthful simplicity I related my tale from
beginning to end, omitting no detail.
He looked at me suspiciously, shook his head, and said that the danger
was even more than he thought. He had no doubt that besides the wound in
my head, I was likewise suffering from sunstroke, which would account
for these hallucinations.
Could anything be more irritating? After all the trouble I had taken in
relating my adventures, even to the merest details--to be looked upon
either as a madman or impostor! He admitted that I might possibly have
been to explore the catacombs, that I might have had a fall which caused
the wound in my head, but as to the apparition of the vestal virgin and
her unsightly friends, he would have none of it, admitting that he was
deaf upon principle to all tales of the supernatural, because they were
impossible. Adding that he was very much surprised to find a young man
of education like myself--and moreover an Englishman--still believing
in such antiquated superstitions. He took his leave and said he would
call the next day.
He came and found me quite convalescent, so soon took his departure with
a shrug, finding that I still believed in the actuality of my vision. As
I was leaving my hotel for a stroll I ran up against Rustcoin, who was
about to call upon me. You can imagine, my friends, his wonder on
hearing me recount my adventures.
There is little more left to relate. I proceeded in company with my
friend to several shops to endeavour to sell the ring, but at none of
them would they give me back the sum I gave for it, or anything like it,
so I resolved upon keeping the ring and paying the monks what I had paid
for it, which amounted to the same thing. So if my spirit friends are
not by this time in Paradise, it is no fault of mine.
* * * * *
"Here is the ring, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone at the conclusion of
his narrative, taking the precious relic from his forefinger and passing
it round for inspection. "You will observe it is a most exquisite
specimen of Graeco-Roman art of the very best period, and believe me,
gentlemen, when I assure you that the wealth of the universe wouldn't
purchase it."
Loud were the expressions of admiration that passed round the table at
the beauty of this antique gem, as well as the delight and satisfaction
of our antiquary's story.
END OF VOLUME I.
Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.