"You have sealed your doom, then," replied Rougemont. "But before you

are yourself immured, you shall see how Auriol Darcy is circumstanced.

Bring him along."

And, followed by the attendants, who dragged Mr. Thorneycroft after him,

he plunged into an opening on the right. A few steps brought him to the

entrance of the cell. Touching the heavy iron door, it instantly swung

open, and disclosed Auriol chained to a stone at the farther corner of

the narrow chamber.

Not a word was spoken for some minutes, but the captives regarded each

other piteously.

"Oh, Mr. Thorneycroft," cried Auriol, at length, "I beseech you forgive

me. I have destroyed your daughter."

"You!" exclaimed the iron-merchant in astonishment.

"It is true," said Rougemont.

"I would have saved her if it had been possible!" cried Auriol. "I

warned her that to love me would be fatal to her. I told her I was

linked to an inexorable destiny, which would involve her in its

meshes--but in vain."

"Oh!" ejaculated Thorneycroft.

"You see you ought to blame him, not me," said Rougemont, with a

derisive laugh.

"I would have given my life, my soul, to preserve her, had it been

possible!" cried Auriol.

"Horrors crowd so thick upon me that my brain reels," cried

Thorneycroft. "Merciless wretch!" he added, to Rougemont,

"fiend--whatever you are, complete your work of ruin by my destruction.

I have nothing left to tie me to life."

"I would have the miserable live," said Rougemont, with a diabolical

laugh. "It is only the happy I seek to destroy. But you have to thank

your own obstinacy for your present distress. Bid a lasting farewell to

Auriol. You will see him no more."

"Hold!" exclaimed Auriol. "A word before we part."

"Ay, hold!" echoed a loud and imperious voice from the depths of the

passage.

"Ha!--who speaks?" demanded Rougemont, a shade passing over his

countenance.

"I, Gerard Paston!" exclaimed Reeks, stepping forward.

The crape was gone from his brow, and in its place was seen the handsome

and resolute features of a man of middle life. He held a pistol in

either hand.

"Is it you, Gerard Paston?" cried Auriol, regarding him; "the brother of

Clara, my second victim!"

"It is," replied the other. "Your deliverance is at hand, Auriol."

"And you have dared to penetrate here, Gerard?" cried Rougemont,

stamping the ground with rage. "Recollect, you are bound to me by the

same ties as Auriol, and you shall share his fate."

"I am not to be intimidated by threats," replied Paston, with a scornful

laugh. "You have employed your arts too long. Deliver up Auriol and this

gentleman at once, or----" And he levelled the pistols at him.

"Fire!" cried Rougemont, drawing himself up to his towering height. "No

earthly bullets can injure me."

"Ve'll try that!" cried Ginger, coming up at the moment behind Paston.

And he discharged a pistol, with a deliberate aim, at the breast of

Rougemont. The latter remained erect, and apparently uninjured.

"You see how ineffectual your weapons are," said Rougemont, with a

derisive laugh.

"It must be the devil!" cried Ginger, running off.

"I will try mine," said Paston.

But before he could draw the triggers, the pistols were wrested from his

grasp by the two attendants, who had quitted Thorneycroft, and stolen

upon him unperceived, and who next pinioned his arms.

CHAPTER IV

THE PIT

So bewildered was the poor iron-merchant by the strange and terrible

events that had befallen him, that, though released by the two masked

attendants, who left him, as before related, to seize Gerard Paston, he

felt utterly incapable of exertion, and would probably have made no

effort to regain his freedom, if his coat had not been vigorously

plucked behind, while a low voice urged him to fly. Glancing in the

direction of the friendly speaker, he could just discern a diminutive

object standing within the entrance of a side-passage, and reared up

against the wall so as to be out of sight of Rougemont and his

attendants. It was the monkey--or rather Old Parr--who, continuing to

tug violently at his coat, at last succeeded in drawing him backwards

into the passage, and then grasping his hand tightly, hurried him along

it. The passage was wholly unlighted, but Mr. Thorneycroft could

perceive that it was exceedingly circuitous, and winded round like a

maze.

"Where are you taking me?" he inquired, attempting to stop.

"Ask no questions," rejoined the dwarf, pulling him along. "Do you want

to be captured, and shut up in a cell for the rest of your life?"

"Certainly not," replied Thorneycroft, accelerating his movements; "I

hope there's no chance of it."

"There's every chance of it," rejoined Old Parr. "If you're taken,

you'll share Auriol's fate."

"O Lord! I hope not," groaned the iron-merchant. "I declare, you

frighten me so much that you take away all power of movement. I shall

drop in a minute."

"Come along, I say," screamed the dwarf. "I hear them close behind us."

And as he spoke, shouts, and the noise of rapidly-approaching footsteps,

resounded along the passage.

"I can't stir another step," gasped the iron-merchant. "I'm completely

done. Better yield at once."

"What, without a struggle?" cried the dwarf tauntingly. "Think of your

daughter, and let the thought of her nerve your heart. She is lost for

ever, if you don't get out of this accursed place."

"She is lost for ever as it is," cried the iron-merchant despairingly.

"No--she may yet be saved," rejoined the dwarf. "Come on--come on--they

are close behind us."

And it was evident, from the increased clamour, that their pursuers were

upon them.

Roused by the imminence of the danger, and by the hope of rescuing his

daughter, Mr. Thorneycroft exerted all his energies, and sprang forward.

A little farther on, they were stopped by a door. It was closed; and

venting his disappointment in a scream, the dwarf searched for the

handle, but could not find it.

"We are entrapped--we shall be caught," he cried, "and then woe to both

of us. Fool that I was to attempt your preservation. Better I had left

you to rot in a dungeon than have incurred Rougemont's displeasure."

The iron-merchant replied by a groan.

"It's all over with me," he said. "I give it up--I'll die here!"

"No--we are saved," cried the dwarf, as the light, now flashing strongly

upon the door, revealed a small iron button within it,--"saved--saved!"

As he spoke, he pressed against the button, which moved a spring, and

the door flew open. Just as they passed through it, the two masked

attendants came in sight. The dwarf instantly shut the door, and finding

a bolt on the side next him, shot it into the socket. Scarcely had he

accomplished this, when the pursuers came up, and dashed themselves

against the door; but finding it bolted, presently ceased their efforts,

and apparently withdrew.

"They are gone by some other way to intercept us," cried Old Parr, who

had paused for a moment to listen; "come on, Mr. Thorneycroft."

"I'll try," replied the iron-merchant, with a subdued groan, "but I'm

completely spent. Oh that I ever ventured into this place!"

"It's too late to think of that now; besides, you came here to rescue

your daughter," rejoined Old Parr. "Take care and keep near me. I wonder

where this passage leads to?"

"Don't you know?" inquired the iron-merchant.

"Not in the least," returned the dwarf. "This is the first time I've

been here--and it shall be the last, if I'm allowed any choice in the

matter."

"You haven't told me how you came here at all," observed Thorneycroft.

"I hardly know myself," replied the dwarf; "but I find it more difficult

to get out than I did to get in. How this passage twists about! I

declare we seem to be returning to the point we started from."

"I think we are turning round ourselves," cried Thorneycroft, in an

agony of fright. "My head is going. Oh dear! oh dear!"

"Why, it does seem very strange, I must say," remarked the dwarf, coming

to a halt. "I could almost fancy that the solid stone walls were moving

around us."

"They _are_ moving," cried Thorneycroft, stretching out his hand. "I

feel 'em. Lord have mercy upon us, and deliver us from the power of the

Evil One!"

"The place seems on fire," cried the dwarf. "A thick smoke fills the

passage. Don't you perceive it, Mr. Thorneycroft?"

"Don't I!--to be sure I do," cried the iron-merchant, coughing and

sneezing. "I feel as if I were in a room with a smoky chimney, and no

window open. Oh!--oh!--I'm choking!"

"Don't mind it," cried the dwarf, who seemed quite at his ease. "We

shall soon be out of the smoke."

"I can't stand it," cried Mr. Thorneycroft; "I shall die. Oh!

poah--pish--puff!"

"Come on, I tell you--you'll get some fresh air in a minute," rejoined

Old Parr. "Halloa! how's this? No outlet. We're come to a dead stop."

"Dead stop, indeed!" echoed the iron-merchant. "We've come to that long

ago. But what new difficulty has arisen?"

"Merely that the road's blocked up by a solid wall--that's all," replied

Old Parr.

"Blocked up!" exclaimed Thorneycroft. "Then we're entombed alive."

"_I_ am," said the dwarf, with affected nonchalance. "As to you, you've

the comfort of knowing it'll soon be over with you. But for me, nothing

can harm me."

"Don't be too sure of that," cried a voice above them.

"Did you speak, Mr. Thorneycroft?" asked the dwarf.

"N-o-o--not I," gasped the iron-merchant. "I'm suffocating--help to drag

me out."

"Get out if you can," cried the voice that had just spoken.

"It's Rougemont himself," cried the dwarf in alarm. "Then there's no

escape."

"None whatever, rascal," replied the unseen speaker. "I want you. I have

more work for you to do."

"I won't leave Mr. Thorneycroft," cried the dwarf resolutely. "I've

promised to preserve him, and I'll keep my word."

"Fool!" cried the other. "You must obey when I command."

And as the words were uttered, a hand was thrust down from above, which,

grasping the dwarf by the nape of the neck, drew him upwards.

"Lay hold of me, Mr. Thorneycroft," screamed Old Parr. "I'm going up

again--lay hold of me--pull me down."

Well-nigh stifled by the thickening and pungent vapour, the poor

iron-merchant found compliance impossible. Before he could reach the

dwarf, the little fellow was carried off. Left to himself, Mr.

Thorneycroft staggered along the passage, expecting every moment to

drop, until at length a current of fresh air blew in his face, and

enabled him to breathe more freely. Somewhat revived, he went on, but

with great deliberation, and it was well he did so, for he suddenly

arrived at the brink of a pit about eight feet in depth, into which, if

he had approached it incautiously, he must infallibly have stumbled, and

in all probability have broken his neck. This pit evidently communicated

with a lower range of chambers, as was shown by a brazen lamp burning

under an archway. A ladder was planted at one side, and by this Mr.

Thorneycroft descended, but scarcely had he set foot on the ground, than

he felt himself rudely grasped by a man who stepped from under the

archway. The next moment, however, he was released, while the familiar

voice of the Tinker exclaimed--

"Vy, bless my 'art, if it ain't Mister Thorneycroft."

"Yes, it's me, certainly, Mr. Tinker," replied the iron-merchant. "Who's

that you've got with you?"

"Vy, who should it be but the Sandman," rejoined the other gruffly.

"Ve've set ourselves free at last, and have made some nice diskiveries

into the bargin."

"Yes, ve've found it all out," added the Tinker.

"What have you discovered--what have you found out?" cried the

iron-merchant breathlessly. "Have you found my daughter? Where is she?

Take me to her."

"Not so fast, old gent, not so fast," rejoined the Tinker. "Ve ain't

sure as 'ow ve've found your darter, but ve've catched a peep of a nice

young 'ooman."

"Oh! it must be her--no doubt of it," cried the iron-merchant. "Where is

she? Take me to her without a moment's delay."

"But ve can't get to her, I tell 'ee," replied the Tinker. "Ve knows the

place vere she's a-shut up,--that's all."

"Take me to it," cried Mr. Thorneycroft eagerly.

"Vell, if you must go, step this vay, then," rejoined the Tinker,

proceeding towards the archway. "Halloa, Sandy, did you shut the door

arter you?"

"Not I," replied the other; "open it."

"Easily said," rejoined the Tinker, "but not quevite so easily done. Vy,

zounds, it's shut of itself and bolted itself on t'other side!"

"Some one must have followed you," groaned Thorneycroft. "We're watched

on all sides."

"Ay, and from above, too," cried the Sandman. "Look up there!" he added,

in accents of alarm.

"What's the matter? What new danger is at hand?" inquired the

iron-merchant.

"Look up, I say," cried the Sandman. "Don't ye see, Tinker?"

"Ay, ay, I see," replied the other. "The roof's a-comin' in upon us.

Let's get out o' this as fast as ve can." And he kicked and pushed

against the door, but all his efforts were unavailing to burst it open.

At the same time the Sandman rushed towards the ladder, but before he

could mount it all egress by that means was cut off. An immense iron

cover worked in a groove was pushed by some unseen machinery over the

top of the pit, and enclosed them in it.

CHAPTER V

NEW PERPLEXITIES

For several hours deep sleep, occasioned by some potent medicaments, had

bound up the senses of Auriol. On awaking, he found himself within a

cell, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of which were of solid stone

masonry. In the midst of this chamber, and supporting the ponderous

roof, stood a massive granite pillar, the capital of which was

grotesquely ornamented with death's-heads and cross-bones, and against

this pillar leaned Auriol, with his left arm chained by heavy links of

iron to a ring in the adjoining wall. Beside him stood a pitcher of

water, and near him lay an antique-looking book, bound in black vellum.

The dungeon in which he was confined was circular in form, with a coved

roof, sustained by the pillar before mentioned, and was approached by a

steep flight of steps rising from a doorway, placed some six feet below

the level of the chamber, and surmounted by a pointed arch. A stream of

light, descending from a narrow aperture in the roof, fell upon his

wasted and haggard features. His dark-brown hair hung about his face in

elf-locks, his beard was untrimmed, and a fixed and stony glare like

that of insanity sat in his eye. He was seated on the ground--neither

bench nor stool being allowed him--with his hand supporting his chin.

His gaze was fixed upon vacancy--if that can he called vacancy which to

him was filled with vivid images. His garb was not that of modern times,

but consisted of a doublet and hose of rich material, wrought in the

fashion of Elizabeth's days.

After remaining for some time in this musing attitude, Auriol opened the

old tome before him, and began to turn over its leaves. It was full of

magical disquisitions and mysterious characters, and he found inscribed

on one of its earlier pages a name which instantly riveted his

attention. Having vainly sought some explanation of this name in the

after contents of the book, he laid it aside, and became lost in

meditation. His reverie ended, he heaved a deep sigh, and turned again

to the open volume lying before him, and in doing so his eye rested for

the first time on his habiliments. On beholding them he started, and

held out his arm to examine his sleeve more narrowly. Satisfied that he

was not deceived, he arose and examined himself from head to foot. He

found himself, as has been stated, attired in the garb of a gentleman of

Elizabeth's time.

"What can this mean?" he cried. "Have I endured a long and troubled

dream, during which I have fancied myself living through more than two

centuries? O Heaven, that it may be so! Oh that the fearful crimes I

suppose I have committed have only been enacted in a dream! Oh that my

victims are imaginary! Oh that Ebba should only prove a lovely phantom

of the night! And yet, I could almost wish the rest were real--so that

she might exist. I cannot bear to think that she is nothing more than a

vision. But it must be so--I have been dreaming--and what a dream it has

been!--what strange glimpses it has afforded me into futurity! Methought

I lived in the reigns of many sovereigns--beheld one of them carried to

the block--saw revolutions convulse the kingdom--old dynasties shaken

down, and new ones spring up. Fashions seem to me to have so changed,

that I had clean forgotten the old ones; while my fellow-men scarcely

appeared the same as heretofore. Can I be the same myself? Is this the

dress I once wore? Let me seek for some proof."

And thrusting his hand into his doublet, he drew forth some tablets, and

hastily examined them. They bore his name, and contained some writing,

and he exclaimed aloud with joy, "This is proof enough--I have been

dreaming all this while."

"The scheme works to a miracle," muttered a personage stationed at the

foot of the steps springing from the doorway, and who, though concealed

from view himself, was watching the prisoner with a malignant and

exulting gaze.

"And yet, why am I here?" pursued Auriol, looking around. "Ah! I see how

it is," he added, with a shudder; "I have been mad--perhaps am mad

still. That will account for the strange delusion under which I have

laboured."

"I will act upon that hint," muttered the listener.

"Of what use is memory," continued Auriol musingly, "if things that are

not, seem as if they were? If joys and sorrows which we have never

endured are stamped upon the brain--if visions of scenes, and faces and

events which we have never witnessed, never known, haunt us, as if they

had once been familiar? But I am mad--mad!"

The listener laughed to himself.

"How else, if I were not mad, could I have believed that I had swallowed

the fabled elixir vitae? And yet, is it a fable? for I am puzzled still.

Methinks I am old--old--old--though I feel young, and look young. All

this is madness. Yet how clear and distinct it seems! I can call to mind

events in Charles the Second's time. Ha!--who told me of Charles the

Second? How know I there was such a king? The reigning sovereign should

be James, and yet I fancy it is George the Fourth. Oh! I am mad--clean

mad!"

There was another pause, during which the listener indulged in a

suppressed fit of laughter.

"Would I could look forth from this dungeon," pursued Auriol, again

breaking silence, "and satisfy myself of the truth or falsehood of my

doubts by a view of the external world, for I am so perplexed in mind,

that if I were not distracted already, they would be enough to drive me

so. What dismal, terrible fancies have possessed me, and weigh upon me

still--the compact with Rougemont--ha!"

"Now it comes," cried the listener.

"Oh, that I could shake off the conviction that this were not so--that

my soul, though heavily laden, might still be saved! Oh, that I dared to

hope this!"

"I must interrupt him if he pursues this strain," said the listener.

[Illustration: Rougemont's device to perplex Auriol.]

"Whether my crimes are real or imaginary--whether I snatched the cup of

immortality from my grandsire's dying lips--whether I signed a compact

with the Fiend, and delivered him a victim on each tenth year--I cannot

now know; but if it is so, I deeply, bitterly regret them, and would

expiate my offences by a life of penance."

At this moment Rougemont, attired in a dress similar to that of the

prisoner, marched up the steps, and cried, "What ho, Auriol!--Auriol

Darcy!"

"Who speaks?" demanded Auriol. "Ah! is it you, Fiend?"

"What, you are still in your old fancies," rejoined Rougemont. "I

thought the draught I gave you last night would have amended you."

"Tell me who and what I am," cried Auriol, stupefied with astonishment;

"in what age I am living; and whether I am in my right mind or not?"

"For the first, you are called Auriol Darcy," replied Rougemont; "for

the second, you are living in the reign of his most Catholic Majesty

James I. of England, and Sixth of Scotland; and for the third, I trust

you will soon recover your reason."

"Amazement!" cried Auriol, striking his brow with his clenched hand.

"Then I _am_ mad."

"It's plain your reason is returning, since you are conscious of your

condition," replied Rougemont; "but calm yourself, you have been subject

to raging frenzies."

"And I have been shut up here for safety?" demanded Auriol.

"Precisely," observed the other.

"And you are----"

"Your keeper," replied Rougemont.

"My God! what a brain mine must be!" cried Auriol. "Answer me one

question--Is there such a person as Ebba Thorneycroft?"

"You have often raved about her," replied Rougemont. "But she is a mere

creature of the imagination."

Auriol groaned, and sank against the wall.

"Since you have become so reasonable, you shall again go forth into the

world," said Rougemont; "but the first essay must be made at night, for

fear of attracting observation. I will come to you again a few hours

hence. Farewell for the present."

And casting a sinister glance at his captive, he turned upon his heel,

descended the steps, and quitted the cell.

CHAPTER VI

DOCTOR LAMB AGAIN

Night came, and the cell grew profoundly dark. Auriol became impatient

for the appearance of his keeper, but hour after hour passed and he did

not arrive. Worn out, at length, with doubt and bewildering

speculations, the miserable captive was beset with the desire to put an

end to his torments by suicide, and he determined to execute his fell

purpose without delay. An evil chance seemed also to befriend him, for

scarcely was the idea formed, than his foot encountered something on the

ground, the rattling of which attracted his attention, and stooping to

take it up, he grasped the bare blade of a knife.

"This will, at all events, solve my doubts," he cried aloud. "I will

sheathe this weapon in my heart, and, if I am mortal, my woes will be

ended."

As he spoke, he placed the point to his breast with the full intent to

strike, but before he could inflict the slightest wound, his arm was

forcibly arrested.

"Would you destroy yourself, madman?" roared a voice. "I thought your

violence was abated, and that you might go forth in safety. But I find

you are worse than ever."

Auriol uttered a groan and let the knife fall to the ground. The

new-comer kicked it to a distance with his foot.

"You shall be removed to another chamber," he pursued, "where you can be

more strictly watched."

"Take me forth--oh! take me forth," cried Auriol. "It was a mere impulse

of desperation, which I now repent."

"I dare not trust you. You will commit some act of insane fury, for

which I myself shall have to bear the blame. When I yielded to your

entreaties on a former occasion, and took you forth, I narrowly

prevented you from doing all we met a mischief."

"I have no recollection of any such circumstance," returned Auriol

mournfully. "But it may be true, nevertheless. And if so, it only proves

the lamentable condition to which I am reduced--memory and reason gone!"

"Ay, both gone," cried the other, with an irrepressible chuckle.

"Ha!" exclaimed Auriol, starting. "I am not so mad but I recognise in

you the Evil Being who tempted me. I am not so oblivious as to forget

our terrible interviews."

"What, you are in your lunes again!" cried Rougemont fiercely. "Nay,

then I must call my assistants, and bind you."

"Let me be--let me be!" implored Auriol, "and I will offend you no more.

Whatever thoughts may arise within me, I will not give utterance to

them. Only take me forth."

"I came for that purpose," said Rougemont; "but I repeat, I dare not.

You are not sufficiently master of yourself."

"Try me," said Auriol.

"Well," rejoined the other, "I will see what I can do to calm you."

So saying, he disappeared for a few moments, and then returning with a

torch, placed it on the ground, and producing a phial, handed it to the

captive.

"Drink!" he said.

Without a moment's hesitation Auriol complied.

"It seems to me rather a stimulant than a soothing potion," he remarked,

after emptying the phial.

"You are in no condition to judge," rejoined the other.

And he proceeded to unfasten Auriol's chain.

"Now then, come with me," he said, "and do not make any attempt at

evasion, or you will rue it."

Like one in a dream, Auriol followed his conductor down the flight of

stone steps leading from the dungeon, and along a narrow passage. As he

proceeded, he thought he heard stealthy footsteps behind him; but he

never turned his head, to see whether he was really followed. In this

way they reached a short steep staircase, and mounting it, entered a

vault, in which Rougemont paused, and placed the torch he had brought

with him upon the floor. Its lurid glimmer partially illumined the

chamber, and showed that it was built of stone. Rude benches of antique

form were set about the vault, and motioning Auriol to be seated upon

one of them, Rougemont sounded a silver whistle. The summons was shortly

afterwards answered by the dwarf, in whose attire a new change had

taken place. He was now clothed in a jerkin of grey serge, fashioned

like the garments worn by the common people in Elizabeth's reign, and

wore a trencher-cap on his head. Auriol watched him as he timidly

advanced towards Rougemont, and had an indistinct recollection of having

seen him before; but could not call to mind how or where.

"Is your master a-bed?" demanded Rougemont.

"A-bed! Good lack, sir!" exclaimed the dwarf, "little of sleep knows

Doctor Lamb. He will toil at the furnace till the stars have set."

"Doctor Lamb!" repeated Auriol. "Surely I have heard that name before?"

"Very likely," replied Rougemont, "for it is the name borne by your

nearest kinsman."

"How is the poor young gentleman?" asked the dwarf, glancing

commiseratingly at Auriol. "My master often makes inquiries after his

grandson, and grieves that the state of his mind should render it

necessary to confine him."

"His grandson! I--Doctor Lamb's grandson!" cried Auriol.

"In sooth are you, young sir," returned the dwarf. "Were you in your

reason, you would be aware that my master's name is the same as your

own--Darcy--Reginald Darcy. He assumes the name of Doctor Lamb to delude

the multitude. He told you as much yourself, sweet sir, if your poor

wits would enable you to recollect it."

"Am I in a dream, good fellow, tell me that?" cried Auriol, lost in

amazement.

"Alack, no, sir," replied the dwarf; "to my thinking, you are wide

awake. But you know, sir," he added, touching his forehead, "you have

been a little wrong here, and your memory and reason are not of the

clearest."

"Where does my grandsire dwell?" asked Auriol.

"Why here, sir," replied the dwarf; "and for the matter of locality, the

house is situated on the south end of London Bridge."

"_On_ the bridge--did you say _on_ the bridge, friend?" cried Auriol.

"Ay, _on_ the bridge--where else should it be? You would not have your

grandsire live under the river?" rejoined the dwarf; "though, for ought

I know, some of these vaults may go under it. They are damp enough."

Auriol was lost in reflection, and did not observe a sign that passed

between the dwarf and Rougemont.

"Will it disturb Doctor Lamb if his grandson goes up to him?" said the

latter, after a brief pause.

"My master does not like to be interrupted in his operations, as you

know, sir," replied the dwarf, "and seldom suffers any one, except

myself, to enter his laboratory; but I will make so bold as to introduce

Master Auriol, if he desires it."

"You will confer the greatest favour on me by doing so," cried Auriol,

rising.

"Sit down--sit down!" said Rougemont authoritatively. "You cannot go up

till the doctor has been apprised. Remain here, while Flapdragon and I

ascertain his wishes." So saying, he quitted the chamber by a farther

outlet with the dwarf.

During the short time that Auriol was left alone, he found it vain to

attempt to settle his thoughts, or to convince himself that he was not

labouring under some strange delusion.

He was aroused at length by the dwarf, who returned alone.

"Your grandsire will see you," said the mannikin.

"One word before we go," cried Auriol, seizing his arm.

"Saints! how you frighten me!" exclaimed the dwarf. "You must keep

composed, or I dare not take you to my master."

"Pardon me," replied Auriol; "I meant not to alarm you. Where is the

person who brought me hither?"

"What, your keeper?" said the dwarf. "Oh, he is within call. He will

come to you anon. Now follow me."

And taking up the torch, he led the way out of the chamber. Mounting a

spiral staircase, apparently within a turret, they came to a door, which

being opened by Flapdragon, disclosed a scene that well-nigh stupefied

Auriol.

It was the laboratory precisely as he had seen it above two centuries

ago. The floor was strewn with alchemical implements--the table was

covered with mystic parchments inscribed with cabalistic characters--the

furnace stood in the corner--crucibles and cucurbites decorated the

chimney-board--the sphere and brazen lamp hung from the ceiling--the

skeletons grinned from behind the chimney-corner--all was there as he

had seen it before! There also was Doctor Lamb, in his loose gown of

sable silk, with a square black cap upon his venerable head, and his

snowy beard streaming to his girdle.

The old man's gaze was fixed upon a crucible placed upon the furnace,

and he was occupied in working the bellows. He moved his head as Auriol

entered the chamber, and the features became visible. It was a face

never to be forgotten.

"Come in, grandson," said the old man kindly. "Come in, and close the

door after you. The draught affects the furnace--my Athanor, as we

adepts term it. So you are better, your keeper tells me--much better."

"Are you indeed living?" cried Auriol, rushing wildly towards him, and

attempting to take his hand.

"Off--off!" cried the old man, drawing back as if alarmed. "You disturb

my operations. Keep him calm, Flapdragon, or take him hence. He may do

me a mischief."

"I have no such intention, sir," said Auriol; "indeed I have not. I only

wish to be assured that you are my aged relative."

"To be sure he is, young sir," interposed the dwarf. "Why should you

doubt it?"

"O sir," cried Auriol, throwing himself at the old man's feet, "pity me

if I am mad; but offer me some explanation, which may tend to restore me

to my senses. My reason seems gone, yet I appear capable of receiving

impressions from external objects. I see you, and appear to know you. I

see this chamber--these alchemical implements--that furnace--these

different objects--and I appear to recognise them. Am I deceived, or is

this real?"

"You are not deceived, my son," replied the old man. "You have been in

this room before, and you have seen me before. It would be useless to

explain to you now how you have suffered from fever, and what visions

your delirium has produced. When you are perfectly restored, we will

talk the matter over."

And, as he said this, he began to blow the fire anew, and watched with

great apparent interest the changing colours of the liquid in the

cucurbite placed on the furnace.

Auriol looked at him earnestly, but could not catch another glance, so

intently was the old man occupied. At length he ventured to break the

silence.

"I should feel perfectly convinced, if I might look forth from that

window," he said.

"Convinced of what?" rejoined the old man somewhat sharply.

"That I am what I seem," replied Auriol.

"Look forth, then," said the old man. "But do not disturb me by idle

talk. There is the rosy colour in the projection for which I have been

so long waiting."

Auriol then walked to the window and gazed through the tinted panes. It

was very dark, and objects could only be imperfectly distinguished.

Still he fancied he could detect the gleam of the river beneath him, and

what seemed a long line of houses on the bridge. He also fancied he

discerned other buildings, with the high roofs, the gables, and the

other architectural peculiarities of the structures of Elizabeth's

time. He persuaded himself, also, that he could distinguish through the

gloom the venerable Gothic pile of Saint Paul's Cathedral on the other

side of the water, and, as if to satisfy him that he was right, a deep

solemn bell tolled forth the hour of two. After a while he returned from

the window, and said to his supposed grandsire, "I am satisfied. I have

lived centuries in a few nights."

THE OLD LONDON MERCHANT

_A SKETCH_

Flos Mercatorum.--_Epitaph on Whittington_

At that festive season, when the days are at the shortest, and the

nights at the longest, and when, consequently, it is the invariable

practice of all sensible people to turn night into day; when the state

of the odds between business and pleasure is decidedly in favour of the

latter; when high carnival is held in London, and everything betokens

the prevalence and influence of good cheer; when pastrycooks are in

their glory, and green trays in requisition; when porters groan beneath

hampers of game, and huge tubs of Canterbury brawn; when trains arriving

from the eastern counties are heavy laden with turkeys and hares; when

agents in town send barrels of oysters to correspondents in the country;

when Christmas-box claimants disturb one's equanimity by day, and Waits

(those licensed nuisances, to which even our reverence for good old

customs cannot reconcile us) break one's first slumber at night; when

surly Christians "awake," and salute the band of little carollers with

jugs of cold water; when their opposite neighbour, who has poked his

nightcapped head from his window, retires with a satisfactory chuckle;

when the meat at Mr. Giblett's in Bond Street, which, for the last six

weeks, has announced the approach of Christmas by its daily-increasing

layers of fat, as correctly as the almanack, has reached the

ne-plus-ultra of adiposity; when wondering crowds are collected before

the aforesaid Giblett's to gaze upon the yellow carcass of that

leviathan prize ox--the fat being rendered more intensely yellow by its

contrast with the green holly with which it is garnished--as well as to

admire the snowy cakes of suet with which the sides of that

Leicestershire sheep are loaded; when the grocer's trade is "in

request," and nothing is heard upon his counter but the jingling of

scales and the snapping of twine; when the vendor of sweetmeats, as he

deals forth his citron and sultanas in the due minced-meat proportions

to that pretty housemaid, whispers something in a soft and sugared tone

about the misletoe; when "coming Twelfth Nights cast their shadows

before," and Mr. Gunter feels doubly important; when pantomimes are

about to unfold all their magic charms, and the holidays have fairly

commenced; when the meteorological prophet predicts that Thursday the

1st will be fair and frosty, and it turns out to be drizzling rain and a

sudden thaw; when intelligence is brought that the ice "bears," the

intelligence being confirmed by the appearance of sundry donkey-carts,

containing ice an inch thick, and rendered indisputable by the discharge

of their crystal loads upon the pavement before Mr. Grove's, the

fishmonger's; when crack performers in paletots, or Mackintoshes, with

skates in their hands, cigars in their mouths, and tights and

fur-topped boots on their lower limbs, are seen hastening up Baker

Street in the direction of the Regent's Park; when a marquee is pitched

upon the banks of the Serpentine, and a quadrille executed by the

before-mentioned crack skaters in tights and fur-topped boots upon its

frozen waters; when the functionaries of the Humane Society begin to

find some employment for their ropes and punt; when Old Father Thames,

who, for a couple of months, appears to have been undecided about the

colours of his livery--now inclining to a cloak of greyish dun, now to a

mantle of orange tawny--has finally adopted a white transparent robe

with facings of silver; when, as you pass down Harley Street, the lights

in the drawing-room windows of every third house, the shadows on the

blinds, and, above all, the enlivening sound of the harp and piano,

satisfy you that its fair inmate is "at home"; when

House-quakes, street-thunders, and door-batteries

are heard from "midnight until morn"; when the knocker at No. 22 Park

Street responds to the knocker at No. 25; when a barrel-organ and a

popular melody salute your ear as you enter Oxford Street; when the

doors of the gin-palaces seem to be always opening to let people _in_,

but never to let them _out_, and the roar of boisterous revelry is heard

from the bar; when various vociferations arise from various courts and

passages; when policemen are less on the alert, though their

interference is more requisite than usual; when uproarious jollity

prevails; when "universal London getteth drunk"; and, in short, when

Christmas is come, and everybody is disposed to enjoy himself in his

own way. At this period of wassail and rejoicing it was that a social

party, to which I am now about to introduce the reader, was assembled in

a snug little dining-room of a snug little house, situated in that snug

little pile of building denominated the Sanctuary in Westminster.

When a man has any peculiarity of character, his house is sure to

partake of it. The room which he constantly inhabits reflects his image

as faithfully as a mirror; nay, more so, for it reflects his mind as

well as his person. A glance at No. 22 St. James's Place would satisfy

you its owner was a poet. We can judge of the human, as of the brute

lion, by the aspect of his den. The room marks the man. Visit it in his

absence, and you may paint his portrait better than the limner who has

placed his "breathing canvas" on the walls. From that well-worn

elbow-chair and the slippers at its feet (the slippers of an old man are

never to be mistaken), you can compute his age; from that faded brocade

dressing-gown and green velvet cap, you can shape out his figure; from

the multiplicity of looking-glasses you at once infer that he has not

entirely lost his vanity or his good looks; that gold-headed cane gives

you his carriage--it is not a crutch-handled stick, but a cane to

flourish jauntily; that shagreen spectacle-case, that chased silver

snuffbox with the Jupiter and Leda richly and somewhat luxuriously

wrought upon its lid, that fine Sevres porcelain, that gorgeous

Berlin-ware, those rare bronzes half consumed by the true hoary green

aerugo, those little Egyptian images, that lachrymatory, that cinerary

urn, that brick from the Colosseum, that tesselated pavement from

Pompeii, looking like a heap of various-coloured dice, and a world of

other rarities, furnish unerring indications of his tastes and habits,

and proclaim him a member of the Archaeological Society; while that open

volume of Sir Thomas Urquhart's "Rabelais" (published by the Abbotsford

Club) gives you his course of study; the _Morning Post_ his politics;

that flute and those musical notes attest the state of his lungs; and

that well-blotted copy of verses, of which the ink is scarcely dry,

proclaims his train of thought. The door opens, and an old gentleman

enters exactly corresponding to your preconceived notions. You require

no introduction. You have made his acquaintance half-an-hour ago.

The apartment to which we are about to repair was a complete index to

the mind and character of its possessor, Sir Lionel Flamstead. I have

called it a dining-room, from its ordinary application to the purposes

of refection and festivity; but it had much more the air of a library,

or study. It was a small comfortable chamber, just large enough to

contain half-a-dozen people, though by management double that number had

been occasionally squeezed into its narrow limits. The walls were

decorated with curious old prints, maps and plans, set in old black

worm-eaten frames, and representing divers personages, places, and

structures connected with London and its history.

Over the mantelpiece was stretched Vertue's copy of Ralph Aggas's famous

survey of our "great metropolis," made about the beginning of

Elizabeth's reign, or perhaps a little earlier, when it was scarcely so

great a metropolis as at the present time, and when novelists, gentlemen

of the press, cabmen, omnibus cads, and other illustrious personages

were unborn and undreamed of; when St. Giles's, in lieu of its

mysterious and Daedalian Seven Dials (which should have for their motto

Wordsworth's title, "We are Seven"), consisted of a little cluster of

country houses, surrounded by a grove of elms; when a turreted wall

girded in the City, from Aldgate to Grey Friars; when a pack of

staghounds was kept in Finsbury Fields, and archers and cross-bowmen

haunted the purlieus of the Spital; when he who strolled westward from

Charing Cross (then no misnomer) beheld neither Opera House nor

club-house, but a rustic lane, with a barn at one end, and a goodly

assortment of hay-carts and hay-stacks at the other; when the Thames was

crossed by a single bridge, and that bridge looked like a street, and

the street itself like a row of palaces. On the right of this plan hung

a sketch of Will Somers, jester to Henry VIII., after the picture by

Holbein; on the left an engraving of Geoffrey Hudson, the diminutive

attendant of Henrietta Maria. This niche was devoted to portraits of the

bluff king before mentioned, and his six spouses; that to the melancholy

Charles and his family. Here, the Great Fire of 1666, with its black

profiles of houses, relieved by a sheet of "bloody and malicious" flame,

formed a pleasant contrast to the icy wonders of the Frost Fair, held on

the Thames in 1684, when carriages were driven through the lines of

tents, and an ox was roasted on the water, to the infinite delectation

of the citizens. There Old Saint Paul's (in the words of Victor Hugo,

"one of those Gothic monuments so admirable and so irreparable"), and

which is but ill replaced by the modern "bastard counterpart" of the

glorious fane of St. Peter at Rome, reared its venerable tower (not

dome) and lofty spire to the sky. Next to St. Paul's came the reverend

Abbey of Westminster, taken before it had been disfigured by the towers

added by Wren; and next to the abbey opened the long and raftered vista

of its magnificent neighbouring hall. Several plans and prospects of the

Tower of London, as it appeared at different epochs, occupied a corner

to themselves: then came a long array of taverns, from the Tabard in

Southwark, the Boar's Head in Eastcheap, and the Devil near Temple Bar,

embalmed in the odour of poesy, to the Nag's Head in Cheapside,

notorious for its legend of the consecration of the Protestant bishops

in 1559; there also might you see--

----in Billinsgate the Salutation.

And the Boar's Head near London Stone,

The Swan at Dowgate, a tavern well known;

The Mitre in Cheap, and then the Bull's Head,

And many like places that make noses red;

The Boar's Head in Old Fish Street; Three Crowns in the Vintry;

And, now, of late, Saint Martin's in the Seutree;

The Windmill in Lothbury; the Ship at th' Exchange;

King's Head in New Fish Street, where roysters do range;

The Mermaid in Cornhill; Red Lion in the Strand;

Three Tuns in Newgate Market; in Old Fish Street the Swan.[1]

[Footnote 1: News from Bartholomew Faire.]

Adjoining these places of entertainment were others of a different

description, to wit, the Globe, as it stood when Shakspeare (how

insufferable is Mr. Knight's orthography of this reverend

name--Shaks_pere_!) trod the stage; the king's play-house in Charles

the Second's time; the Bear Garden, with its flag streaming to the wind;

and the Folly, as it once floated in the river, opposite old Somerset

House. Then came the Halls, beginning with Guildhall and ending with Old

Skinner's. Next, the Crosses, from Paul's to Charing; then, the

churches, gateways, hospitals, colleges, prisons, asylums, inns of

court,--in short, for it is needless to particularise further, London

and its thousand recollections rose before you, as you gazed around.

Scarcely an old edifice, to which an historical tradition could be

attached (and what old London edifice is destitute of such traditions?),

was wanting. Nor were the great of old--the spirits, who gave interest

and endurance to these decayed, or decaying structures, wanting. But I

shall not pause to enumerate their portraits, or make out a catalogue as

long as the list of Homer's ships, or the gallery of Mr. Lodge.

Sufficient has been said, I trust, to give the reader an idea of the

physiology of the room. Yet stay! I must not omit to point out the

contents of those groaning shelves. In the goodly folios crowded there

are contained the chronicles of Holinshed and Hall; of Grafton, Fabian,

and Stow; of Matthew of Paris, and his namesake of Westminster. Let him

not be terrified at the ponderous size of these admirable old

historians, nor be deterred by the black letter, if he should chance to

open a volume. Their freshness and picturesque details will surprise as

much as they will delight him. From this wealthy mine Shakspeare drew

some of his purest ore. The shelves are crowned by a solitary bust. It

is that of a modern. It is that of a lover of London, and a character

of London. It is DOCTOR JOHNSON.

Having completed the survey of the apartment, I shall now proceed to its

occupants. These were five in number--jolly fellows all--seated round a

circular dining-table covered with glasses and decanters, amidst which a

portly magnum of claret, and a deep and capacious china punch-bowl, must

not pass unmentioned. They were in the full flow of fun and

conviviality; enjoying themselves as good fellows always enjoy

themselves at "the season of the year." The port was delectable--old as

Saint Paul's, I was going to say--not quite, however--but just "old

enough"; the claret was nectar, or what is better, it was Lafitte; the

punch was drink for the gods. The jokes of this party would have split

your sides--their laughter would have had the same effect on your ears.

Never were heard peals of merriment so hearty and prolonged. You only

wondered how they found time to drink, so quick did each roar follow on

the heels of its predecessor. That they _did_ drink, however, was clear;

that they _had_ drunk was equally certain; and that they intended to

continue drinking seemed to come within the limits of probability.

Sir Lionel Flamstead was a retired merchant--one of those high-souled,

high-principled traders, of whom our City was once so justly proud, and

of whom so few, in these days of railway bubbles, and other harebrained

speculations, can be found. His word was his bond--once passed, it was

sufficient; his acceptances were accounted safe as the Bank of England.

Had Sir Thomas Gresham descended from his niche he could not have been

treated with greater consideration than attended Sir Lionel's appearance

on 'Change. All eyes followed the movements of his tall and stately

figure--all hats were raised to his courteous but ceremonious

salutation. Affable, yet precise, and tinctured with something of the

punctiliousness of the old school, his manners won him universal respect

and regard, even from those unknown to him. By his intimates he was

revered. His habits were as regular as clockwork, and the glass of cold

punch at Tom's, or the basin of soup at Birch's, wound him up for the

day. His attire was as formal as his manners, being a slight

modification of the prevalent costume of some five-and-thirty years ago.

He had consented, not without extreme reluctance, to clothe his nether

limbs in the unmentionable garment of recent introduction; but he

resolutely adhered to the pigtail. There is something, by-the-bye, in a

pigtail, to which old gentlemen cling in spite of all remonstrance, with

lover-like pertinacity. Only hint the propriety of cutting it off to

your great-uncle or your grandfather, and you may rely on being cut off

with a shilling yourself. Be this as it may, Sir Lionel gathered his

locks, once sable as the riband that bound them, but now thickly strewn

with the silver "blossoms of the grave," into a knot, and suffered them

to dangle a few inches below his collar. His shoes shone with a lustre

beyond French polish, and his hat was brushed till not a wind dared to

approach it. Sir Lionel wore a white, unstarched cravat, with a thick

pad in it, sported a frill over his waistcoat, carried a black ebony

cane in his hand, and was generally followed by a pet pug-dog, one of

the most sagacious and disagreeable specimens of his species. Sir Lionel

Flamstead, I have said, was tall--I might have said he was very

tall--somewhat narrower across the shoulders than about the hips--a

circumstance which did not materially conduce to his symmetry--with

grey, benevolent eyes, shaded by bushy, intelligent brows--a lofty,

expansive forehead, in which, in the jargon of phrenology, the organs of

locality and ideality were strongly developed, and which was rendered

the more remarkable from the flesh having fallen in on either side of

the temples--with a nose which had been considered handsome and well

proportioned in his youth, but to which good living had imparted a

bottle form and a bottle tint--and cheeks from which all encroachment of

whiskers was sedulously removed, in order, we conclude, that his rosy

complexion might be traced from its point of concentration, upon the

prominent feature before mentioned, to its final disappearance behind

his ears. Such was Sir Lionel Flamstead.

A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE IN ROME

CHAPTER I

SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE

The Pope was saying the high, high mass,

All on Saint Peter's day;

With the power to him given by the saints in heaven

To wash men's sins away.

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,

And the people kneel'd around;

And from each man's soul his sins did pass,

As he kissed the holy ground.

--_The Grey Brother._

Chancing to be in Rome in the August of 1830, I visited the gorgeous

church of Santa Maria Maggiore during the celebration of the anniversary

of the Holy Assumption.

It was a glorious sight to one unaccustomed to the imposing religious

ceremonials of the Romish Church, to witness all the pomp and splendour

displayed at this high solemnity--to gaze down that glittering pile, and

mark the various ecclesiastical dignitaries, each in their peculiar and

characteristic costume, employed in the ministration of their sacred

functions, and surrounded by a wide semicircle of the papal guards, so

stationed to keep back the crowd, and who, with their showy scarlet

attire and tall halberds, looked like the martial figures we see in the

sketches of Callot. Nor was the brilliant effect of this picture

diminished by the sumptuous framework in which it was set. Overhead

flamed a roof resplendent with burnished gold; before me rose a canopy

supported by pillars of porphyry, and shining with many-coloured stones;

while on either hand were chapels devoted to some noble house, and

boasting each the marble memorial of a pope. Melodious masses proper to

the service were ever and anon chanted by the papal choir, and

overpowering perfume was diffused around by a hundred censers.

Subdued by the odours, the music, and the spectacle, I sank into a state

of dreamy enthusiasm, during a continuance of which I almost fancied

myself a convert to the faith of Rome, and surrendered myself

unreflectingly to an admiration of its errors. As I gazed among the

surrounding crowd, the sight of so many prostrate figures, all in

attitudes of deepest devotion, satisfied me of the profound religious

impression of the ceremonial. As elsewhere, this feeling was not

universal; and, as elsewhere, likewise, more zeal was exhibited by the

lower than the higher classes of society; and I occasionally noted

amongst the latter the glitter of an eye or the flutter of a bosom, not

altogether agitated, I suspect, by holy aspirations. Yet methought, on

the whole, I had never seen such abandonment of soul, such prostration

of spirit, in my own colder clime, and during the exercise of my own

more chastened creed, as that which in several instances I now beheld;

and I almost envied the poor maiden near me, who, abject upon the earth,

had washed away her sorrows, and perhaps her sins, in contrite tears.

As such thoughts swept through my mind, I felt a pleasure in singling

out particular figures and groups which interested me, from their

peculiarity of costume, or from their devotional fervour. Amongst

others, a little to my left, I remarked a band of mountaineers from

Calabria, for such I judged them to be from their wild and picturesque

garb. Deeply was every individual of this little knot of peasantry

impressed by the ceremonial. Every eye was humbly cast down; every knee

bent; every hand was either occupied in grasping the little crucifix

suspended from its owner's neck, in telling the beads of his rosary, or

fervently crossed upon his bare and swarthy breast.

While gazing upon this group, I chanced upon an individual whom I had

not hitherto noticed, and who now irresistibly attracted my attention.

Though a little removed from the Calabrian mountaineers, and reclining

against the marble walls of the church, he evidently belonged to the

same company; at least, so his attire seemed to indicate, though the

noble cast of his countenance was far superior to that of his comrades.

He was an old man, with a face of the fine antique Roman stamp--a bold

outline of prominent nose, rugged and imperious brow, and proudly-cut

chin. His head and chin, as well as his naked breast, were frosted over

with the snowy honours of many winters, and their hoar appearance

contrasted strikingly with the tawny hue of a skin almost as dark and as

lustrous as polished oak. Peasant as he was, there was something of

grandeur and majesty in this old man's demeanour and physiognomy. His

head declined backwards, so as completely to expose his long and

muscular throat. His arms hung listlessly by his side; one hand drooped

upon the pavement, the other was placed within his breast: his eyes were

closed. The old man's garb was of the coarsest fabric; he wore little

beyond a shirt, a loose vest, a sort of sheep-skin cloak, and canvas

leggings bound around with leathern thongs. His appearance, however, was

above his condition; he became his rags as proudly as a prince would

have become his ermined robe.

The more I scrutinised the rigid lines of this old man's countenance,

the more I became satisfied that many singular, and perhaps not wholly

guiltless, events were connected with his history. The rosary was in his

hand--the cross upon his breast--the beads were untold--the crucifix

unclasped--no breath of prayer passed his lips. His face was turned

heavenward, but his eyes were closed,--he dared not open them. Why did

he come thither, if he did not venture to pray? Why did he assume a

penitential attitude, if he felt no penitence?

So absorbed was I in the perusal of the workings of this old man's

countenance, as to be scarcely conscious that the service of high mass

was concluded, and the crowd within the holy pile fast dispersing. The

music was hushed, the robed prelates and their train had disappeared,

joyous dames were hastening along the marble aisles to their equipages;

all, save a few kneeling figures near the chapels, were departing; and

the old man, aware, from the stir and hum prevailing around, that the

ceremonial was at an end, arose, stretched out his arm to one of his

comrades, a youth who had joined him, and prepared to follow the

concourse.

Was he really blind? Assuredly not. Besides, he did not walk like as one

habituated to the direst calamity that can befall our nature. He

staggered in his gait, and reeled to and fro. Yet wherefore did he not

venture to unclose his eyes within the temple of the Most High? What

would I not have given to be made acquainted with his history! For I

felt that it must be a singular one.

I might satisfy my curiosity at once. He was moving slowly forward,

guided by his comrade. In a few seconds it would be too late--he would

have vanished from my sight. With hasty footsteps I followed him down

the church, and laid my hand, with some violence, upon his shoulder.

The old man started at the touch, and turned. Now, indeed, his eyes were

opened wide, and flashing full upon me,--and such eyes! Heretofore I had

only dreamed of such. Age had not quenched their lightning, and I

quailed beneath the fierce glances which he threw upon me. But if I was,

at first, surprised at the display of anger which I had called forth in

him, how much more was I astonished to behold the whole expression of

his countenance suddenly change. His eyes continued fixed upon mine as

if I had been a basilisk. Apparently he could not avert them; while his

whole frame shivered with emotion. I advanced towards him; he shrank

backwards, and, but for the timely aid of his companion, would have

fallen upon the pavement.

At a loss to conceive in what way I could have occasioned him so much

alarm, I rushed forward to the assistance of the old man, when his

son--for such it subsequently appeared he was--rudely repelled me, and

thrust his hand into his girdle, as if to seek for means to prevent

further interference.

Meanwhile the group had been increased by the arrival of a third party,

attracted by the cry the old man had uttered in falling. The new-comer

was an Italian gentleman, somewhat stricken in years; of stern and

stately deportment, and with something sinister and forbidding in his

aspect. He was hastening towards the old man, but he suddenly stopped,

and was about to retire when he encountered my gaze. As our eyes met he

started; and a terror, as sudden and lively as that exhibited by the old

man, was at once depicted in his features.

My surprise was now beyond all bounds, and I continued for some moments

speechless with astonishment. Not a little of the inexplicable awe which

affected the old man and the stranger was communicated to myself.

Altogether, we formed a mysterious and terrible triangle, of which each

side bore some strange and unintelligible relation to the other.

The new-comer first recovered his composure, though not without an

effort. Coldly turning his heel upon me, he walked towards the old man,

and shook him forcibly. The latter shrank from his grasp, and

endeavoured to avoid him; but it was impossible. The stranger whispered

a few words in his ear, of which, from his gestures being directed

towards myself, I could guess the import. The old man replied. His

action in doing so was that of supplication and despair. The stranger

retorted in a wild and vehement manner, and even stamped upon the

ground; but the old man still continued to cling to the knees of his

superior.

"Weak, superstitious fool!" at length exclaimed the stranger, "I will

waste no more words upon thee. Do, or say, what thou wilt; but beware!"

And spurning him haughtily back with his foot, he strode away.

The old man's reverend head struck against the marble floor. His temple

was cut open by the fall, and blood gushed in torrents from the wound.

Recovering himself, he started to his feet--a knife was instantly in his

hand, and he would have pursued and doubtless slain his aggressor, if he

had not been forcibly withheld by his son, and by a priest who had

joined them.

"_Maledizione!_" exclaimed the old man--"a blow from _him_--from _that_

hand! I will stab him, though he were at the altar's foot; though he had

a thousand lives, each should pay for it. Release me, Paolo! release me!

for, by Heaven, he dies!"

"Peace, father!" cried the son, still struggling with him.

"Thou art not _my_ son, to hinder my revenge!" shouted the enraged

father. "Dost not see this blood--_my_ blood--thy father's blood?--and

thou holdest me back! Thou shouldst have struck him to the earth for the

deed--but he was a noble, and thou daredst not lift thy hand against

him!"

"Wouldst thou have had me slay him in this holy place?" exclaimed Paolo,

reddening with anger and suppressed emotion.

"No, no," returned the old man, in an altered voice; "not here, not

_here_, though 'twere but just retribution. But I will find other means

of vengeance. I will denounce him--I will betray all, though it cost me

my own life! He shall die by the hands of the common executioner;--there

is one shall testify for me!" And he pointed to me.

Again I advanced towards him.

"If thou hast aught to disclose pertaining to the Holy Church, I am

ready to listen to thee, my son," said the priest; "but reflect well ere

thou bringest any charge thou mayest not be able to substantiate against

one who stands so high in her esteem as him thou wouldst accuse."

The son gave his father a meaning look, and whispered somewhat in his

ear. The old man became suddenly still.

"Right, right," said he; "I have bethought me. 'Twas but a blow. He is

wealthy, I am poor; there is no justice for the poor in Rome."

"My purse is at your service," said I, interfering; "you shall have my

aid."

"Your aid!" echoed the old man, staring at me; "will _you_ assist me,

signor?"

"I will."

"Enough. I may claim fulfilment of your promise."

"Stop, old man," I said; "answer me one question ere you depart. Whence

arose your recent terrors?"

"You shall know hereafter, signor," he said; "I must now begone. We

shall meet again. Follow me not," he continued, seeing I was bent upon

obtaining further explanation of the mystery. "You will learn nothing

now, and only endanger my safety. _Addio, signor._" And with hasty steps

he quitted the church, accompanied by his son.

"Who is that old man?" I demanded of the priest.

"I am as ignorant as yourself," he replied, "but he must be looked to;

he talks threateningly." And he beckoned to an attendant.

"Who was he who struck him?" was my next inquiry.

"One of our wealthiest nobles," he replied, "and an assured friend of

the Church. We could ill spare him. Do not lose sight of them," he added

to the attendant, "and let the _sbirri_ track them to their haunts. They

must not be suffered to go forth to-night. A few hours' restraint will

cool their hot Calabrian blood."

"But the name of the noble, father?" I said, renewing my inquiries.

"I must decline further questioning," returned the priest coldly. "I

have other occupation; and meanwhile it will be well to have these

stains effaced, which may else bring scandal on these holy walls. You

will excuse me, my son." So saying, he bowed and retired.

I made fruitless inquiries for the old man at the door of the church. He

was gone; none of the bystanders who had seen him go forth knew whither.

Stung by curiosity, I wandered amid the most unfrequented quarters of

Rome throughout the day, in the hope of meeting with the old Calabrian,

but in vain. As, however, I entered the courtyard of my hotel, I fancied

I discovered, amongst the lounging assemblage gathered round the door,

the dark eyes of the younger mountaineer. In this I might have been

mistaken. No one answering to his description had been seen near the

house.

CHAPTER II

THE MARCHESA

Une chose tenebreuse fait par des hommes tenebreux.

--_Lucrece Borgia._

On the same night I bent my steps towards the Colosseum; and, full of my

adventure of the morning, found myself, not without apprehension,

involved within its labyrinthine passages. Accompanied by a monk, who,

with a small horn lantern in his hand, acted as my guide, I fancied

that, by its uncertain light, I could discover stealthy figures lurking

within the shades of the ruin.

Whatever suspicions I might entertain, I pursued my course in silence.

Emerging from the _vomitorio_, we stood upon the steps of the colossal

amphitheatre. The huge pile was bathed in rosy moonlight, and reared

itself in serene majesty before my view.

While indulging in a thousand speculations, occasioned by the hour and

the spot, I suddenly perceived a figure on a point of the ruin

immediately above me. Nothing but the head was visible; but that was

placed in bold relief against the beaming sky of night, and I recognised

it at once. No nobler Roman head had ever graced the circus when Rome

was in her zenith. I shouted to the old Calabrian, for he it was I

beheld. Almost ere the sound had left my lips, he had disappeared. I

made known what I had seen to the monk. He was alarmed--urged our

instant departure, and advised me to seek the assistance of the sentinel

stationed at the entrance to the pile. To this proposal I assented; and,

having descended the vasty steps and crossed the open arena, we arrived,

without molestation, at the doorway.

The sentinel had allowed no one to pass him. He returned with me to the

circus; and, after an ineffectual search amongst the ruins, volunteered

his services to accompany me homewards through the Forum. I declined his

offer, and shaped my course towards a lonesome _vicolo_ on the right.

This was courting danger; but I cared not, and walked slowly forward

through the deserted place.

Scarcely had I proceeded many paces, when I heard footsteps swiftly

approaching; and, ere I could turn round, my arms were seized from

behind, and a bandage was passed across my eyes. All my efforts at

liberation were unavailing; and, after a brief struggle, I remained

passive.

"Make no noise," said a voice which I knew to be that of the old man,

"and no harm shall befall you. You must come with us. Ask no questions,

but follow."

I suffered myself to be led, without further opposition, whithersoever

they listed. We walked for it might be half-an-hour, much beyond the

walls of Rome. I had to scramble through many ruins, and frequently

stumbled over inequalities of ground. I now felt the fresh breeze of

night blowing over the wide campagna, and my conductors moved swiftly

onwards as we trod on its elastic turf.

At length they came to a halt. My bandage was removed, and I beheld

myself beneath the arch of an aqueduct, which spanned the moonlit plain.

A fire was kindled beneath the arch, and the ruddy flame licked its

walls. Around the blaze were grouped the little band of peasantry I had

beheld within the church, in various and picturesque attitudes. They

greeted my conductors on their arrival, and glanced inquisitively at me,

but did not speak to me. The elder Calabrian, whom they addressed as

Cristofano, asked for a glass of _aqua vitae_, which he handed

respectfully to me. I declined the offer, but he pressed it upon me.

"You will need it, signor," he said; "you have much to do to-night. You

fear, perhaps, it is drugged. Behold!" And he drank it off.

I could not, after this, refuse his pledge. "And now, signor," said the

old man, removing to a little distance from the group, "may I crave a

word with you--your name?"

As I had no reason for withholding it, I told him how I was called.

"Hum! Had you no relation of the name of ----?"

"None whatever." And I sighed, for I thought of my desolate condition.

"Strange!" he muttered; adding, with a grim smile, "but, however,

likenesses are easily accounted for."

"What likenesses?" I asked. "Whom do I resemble? and what is the motive

of your inexplicable conduct?"

"You shall hear," he replied, frowning gloomily. "Step aside, and let us

get within the shade of these arches, out of the reach of yonder

listeners. The tale I have to tell is for your ears alone."

I obeyed him; and we stood beneath the shadow of the aqueduct.

"Years ago," began the old man, "an Englishman, in all respects

resembling yourself, equally well favoured in person, and equally young,

came to Rome, and took up his abode within the eternal city. He was of

high rank in his own country, and was treated with the distinction due

to his exalted station here. At that time I dwelt with the Marchese

di ----. I was his confidential servant--his adviser--his friend. I had

lived with his father--carried him as an infant--sported with him as a

boy--loved and served him as a man. Loved him, I say; for, despite his

treatment of me, I loved him then as much as I abhor him now. Well,

signor, to my story. If his youth had been profligate, his manhood was

not less depraved; it was devoted to cold, calculating libertinism. Soon

after he succeeded to the estates and title of his father, he married.

That he loved his bride, I can scarcely believe; for, though he was

wildly jealous of her, he was himself unfaithful, and she knew it. In

Italy, revenge, in such cases, is easily within a woman's power; and,

for aught I know, the marchesa might have meditated retaliation. My

lord, however, took the alarm, and thought fit to retire to his villa

without the city, and for a time remained secluded within its walls. It

was at this crisis that the Englishman I have before mentioned arrived

in Rome. My lady, who mingled little with the gaieties of the city, had

not beheld him; but she could not have been unacquainted with him by

report, as every tongue was loud in his praises. A rumour of his

successes with other dames had reached my lord; nay, I have reason to

believe that he had been thwarted by the handsome Englishman in some

other quarter, and he sedulously prevented their meeting. An interview,

however, _did_ take place between them, and in an unexpected manner. It

was the custom then, as now, upon particular occasions, to drive, during

the heats of summer, within the Piazza Navona, which is flooded with

water. One evening the marchesa drove thither: she was unattended,

except by myself. Our carriage happened to be stationed near that of the

young Englishman."

"The marchesa was beautiful, no doubt?" I said, interrupting him.

"Most beautiful!" he replied; "and so your countryman seemed to think,

for he was lost in admiration of her. I am not much versed in the

language of the eyes, but his were too eloquent and expressive not to be

understood. I watched my mistress narrowly. It was evident from her

glowing cheek, though her eyes were cast down, that she was not

insensible to his regards. She turned to play with her dog, a lovely

little greyhound, which was in the carriage beside her, and patted it

carelessly with the glove which she held in her hand. The animal

snatched the glove from her grasp, and, as he bounded backwards, fell

over the carriage side. My lady uttered a scream at the sight, and I was

preparing to extricate the struggling dog, when the Englishman plunged

into the water. In an instant he had restored her favourite to the

marchesa, and received her warmest acknowledgments. From that moment an

intimacy commenced, which was destined to produce the most fatal

consequences to both parties."

"Did you betray them?" I asked, somewhat impatiently.

"I was then the blind tool of the marchese. I did so," replied the old

man. "I told him all particulars of the interview. He heard me in

silence, but grew ashy pale with suppressed rage. Bidding me redouble my

vigilance, he left me. My lady was now scarcely ever out of my sight;

when one evening, a few days after what had occurred, she walked forth

alone upon the garden-terrace of the villa. Her guitar was in her hand,

and her favourite dog by her side. I was at a little distance, but

wholly unperceived. She struck a few plaintive chords upon her

instrument, and then, resting her chin upon her white and rounded arm,

seemed lost in tender reverie. Would you had seen her, signor, as I

beheld her then, or as one other beheld her! you would acknowledge that

you had never met with her equal in beauty. Her raven hair fell in thick

tresses over shoulders of dazzling whiteness and the most perfect

proportion. Her deep dark eyes were thrown languidly on the ground, and

her radiant features were charged with an expression of profound and

pensive passion.

"In this musing attitude she continued for some minutes, when she was

aroused by the gambols of her dog, who bore in his mouth a glove which

he had found. As she took it from him, a letter dropped upon the floor.

Had a serpent glided from its folds, it could not have startled her

more. She gazed upon the paper, offended, but irresolute. Yes, she was

_irresolute_; and you may conjecture the rest. She paused, and by that

pause was lost. With a shrinking grasp she stooped to raise the letter.

Her cheeks, which had grown deathly pale, again kindled with blushes as

she perused it. She hesitated--cast a bewildering look towards the

mansion--placed the note within her bosom--and plunged into the

orange-bower."

"Her lover awaited her there?"

"He did. I saw them meet. I heard his frenzied words--his passionate

entreaties. He urged her to fly--she resisted. He grew more urgent--more

impassioned. She uttered a faint cry, and I stood before them. The

Englishman's hand was at my throat, and his sword at my breast, with the

swiftness of thought; and but for the screams of my mistress, that

instant must have been my last. At her desire he relinquished his hold

of me; but her cries had reached other ears, and the marchese arrived to

avenge his injured honour. He paused not to inquire the nature of the

offence, but, sword in hand, assailed the Englishman, bidding me remove

his lady. The clash of their steel was drowned by her shrieks as I bore

her away; but I knew the strife was desperate. Before I gained the house

my lady had fainted; and committing her to the charge of other

attendants, I returned to the terrace. I met my master slowly walking

homewards. His sword was gone--his brow was bent--he shunned my sight. I

knew what had happened, and did not approach him. He sought his wife.

What passed in that interview was never disclosed, but it may be guessed

at from its result. That night the marchesa left her husband's

halls--never to return. Next morn I visited the terrace where she had

received the token. The glove was still upon the ground. I picked it up

and carried it to the marchese, detailing the whole occurrence to him.

He took it, and vowed as he took it that his vengeance should never rest

satisfied till that glove had been steeped in her blood."

"And he kept his vow?" I asked, shuddering.

"Many months elapsed ere its accomplishment. Italian vengeance is slow,

but sure. To all outward appearance, he had forgotten his faithless

wife. He had even formed a friendship with her lover, which he did the

more effectually to blind his ultimate designs. Meanwhile, time rolled

on, and the marchesa gave birth to a child--the offspring of her

seducer."

"Great God!" I exclaimed, "was that child a boy?"

"It was--but listen to me. My tale draws to a close. One night, during

the absence of the Englishman, by secret means we entered the palazzo

where the marchesa resided. We wandered from room to room till we came

to her chamber. She was sleeping, with her infant by her side. The sight

maddened the marchese. He would have stricken the child, but I held back

his hand. He relented. He bade me make fast the door. He approached the

bed. I heard a rustle--a scream. A white figure sprang from out the

couch. In an instant the light was extinguished--there was a

blow--another--and all was over. I threw open the door. The marchese

came forth. The corridor in which we stood was flooded with moonlight. A

glove was in his hand--it was dripping with blood. His oath was

fulfilled--his vengeance complete--no, not complete, for the Englishman

yet lived."

"What became of him?" I inquired.

"Ask me not," replied the old man; "you were at the Chiesa Santa Maria

Maggiore this morning. If those stones could speak, they might tell a

fearful story."

"And that was the reason you did not dare to unclose your eyes within

those holy precincts?--a film of blood floated between you and heaven."

The old man shuddered, but replied not.

"And the child?" I asked, after a pause; "what of their wretched

offspring?"

"It was conveyed to England by a friend of its dead father. If he were

alive, that boy would be about your age, signor."

"Indeed!" I said; a horrible suspicion flashing across my mind.

"After the Englishman's death," continued Cristofano, "my master began

to treat me with a coldness and suspicion which increased daily. I was a

burden to him, and he was resolved to rid himself of me. I spared him

the trouble--quitted Rome--sought the mountains of the Abruzzi--and

thence wandered to the fastnesses of Calabria, and became--no matter

what. Here I am. Heaven's appointed minister of vengeance. The marchese

dies to-night!"

"To-night! old man," I echoed, horror-stricken. "Add not crime to crime.

If he has indeed been guilty of the foul offence you have named, let him

be dealt with according to the offended laws of the country. Do not

pervert the purposes of justice."

"Justice!" echoed Cristofano scornfully.

"Ay, justice. You are poor and powerless, but means may be found to aid

you. I will assist the rightful course of vengeance."

"You _shall_ assist it. I have sworn he shall die before dawn, and the

hand to strike the blow shall be yours."

"Mine! never!"

"Your own life will be the penalty of your obstinacy, if you refuse; nor

will your refusal save him. By the Mother of Heaven, he dies! and by

your hand. You saw how he was struck by your resemblance to the young

Englishman this morning in the chiesa. It is wonderful! I know not who

or what you are; but to me you are an instrument of vengeance, and as

such I shall use you. The blow dealt by you will seem the work of

retribution; and I care not if you strike twice, and make my heart your

second mark."

Ere I could reply he called to his comrades, and in a few moments we

were speeding across the campagna.

We arrived at a high wall:--the old man conducted us to a postern-gate,

which he opened. We entered a garden filled with orange-trees, the

perfume of which loaded the midnight air. We heard the splash of a

fountain at a distance, and the thrilling notes of a nightingale amongst

some taller trees. The moon hung like a lamp over the belvidere of the

proud villa. We strode along a wide terrace edged by a marble

balustrade. The old man pointed to an open summer-house terminating the

walk, and gave me a significant look, but he spoke not. A window thrown

open admitted us to the house. We were within a hall crowded with

statues, and traversed noiselessly its marble floors. Passing through

several chambers, we then mounted to a corridor, and entered an

apartment which formed the ante-room to another beyond it. Placing his

finger upon his lips, and making a sign to his comrades, Cristofano

opened a door and disappeared. There was a breathless pause for a few

minutes, during which I listened intently, but caught only a faint sound

as of the snapping of a lock.

Presently the old man returned.

"He sleeps," he said, in a low deep tone to me; "sleeps as his victim

slept--sleeps without a dream of remorse; and he shall awaken, as she

awoke, to despair. Come into his chamber!"

We obeyed. The door was made fast within side.

The curtains of the couch were withdrawn, and the moonlight streamed

full upon the face of the sleeper. He was hushed in profound repose. No

visions seemed to haunt his peaceful slumbers. Could guilt sleep so

soundly? I half doubted the old man's story.

Placing us within the shadow of the canopy, Cristofano approached the

bed. A stiletto glittered in his hand. "Awake!" he cried, in a voice of

thunder.

The sleeper started at the summons.

I watched his countenance. He read Cristofano's errand in his eye. But

he quailed not.

"Cowardly assassin!" he cried, "you have well consulted your own safety

in stealing on my sleep."

"And who taught me the lesson?" fiercely interrupted the old man. "Am I

the first that have stolen on midnight slumber? Gaze upon this? When and

how did it acquire its dye?" And he held forth a glove, which looked

blackened and stained in the moonlight.

The marchese groaned aloud.

"My cabinet broken open!" at length he exclaimed--"villain! how dare you

do this? But why do I rave? I know with whom I have to deal." Uttering

these words he sprung from his couch with the intention of grappling

with the old man; but Cristofano retreated, and at that instant the

brigands, who rushed to his aid, thrust me forward. I was face to face

with the marchese.

The apparition of the murdered man could not have staggered him more.

His limbs were stiffened by the shock, and he remained in an attitude of

freezing terror.

"Is he come for vengeance?" he ejaculated.

"He is!" cried Cristofano. "Give him the weapon!"

And a stiletto was thrust into my hand. But I heeded not the steel. I

tore open my bosom--a small diamond cross was within the folds.

"Do you recollect this?" I demanded of the marchese.

"It was my wife's!" he shrieked in amazement.

"It was upon the infant's bosom as he slept by her side on that fatal

night," said Cristofano. "I saw it sparkle there."

"That infant was myself--that wife my mother!" I cried.

"The murderer stands before you! Strike!" exclaimed Cristofano.

I raised the dagger. The marchese stirred not. I could not strike.

"Do you hesitate?" angrily exclaimed Cristofano.

"He has not the courage," returned the younger Calabrian. "You

reproached me this morning with want of filial duty. Behold how a son

can avenge his father!" And he plunged his stiletto within the bosom of

the marchese.

"_Your_ father is not yet avenged, young man!" cried Cristofano, in a

terrible tone. "You alone can avenge him!"

Ere I could withdraw its point the old man had rushed upon the dagger

which I held extended in my grasp.

He fell without a single groan.

THE END