did not listen to it with favourable ear; for the clouds gathered
themselves more thickly than ever, while the wind howled only more loudly
among the tombs, and the half-scared owl sent up a feebler hooting.
Notwithstanding, the old woman continued fixed in the same attitude of
expectation, and the stripling still held the well-nigh drained throat of
his lamb above the trench. By degrees, however, the patience of both
seemed to be exhausted; and there arose between them an angry altercation.
“Infernal brat of Hades!” quoth the witch, “look ye, if you have not
stained your filthy hands, and if the thirsty shadows be not incensed,
because you have deprived them of some of the sweet blood which they
love!”—“Curse not me, mother,” replied the boy—“Did you think, in truth,
that the blood of a stolen lamb would ever propitiate Hecate?”—“Imp!”
quoth she, “Hold thy peace, or I will try whether no other blood may make
the charm work better!”—“Beware!” quoth the boy, leaping backwards—“beware
what you do! I am no longer so weak that I must bear all your blows.”
“Stop,” cried I, “for there are eyes that you think not of, to take note
of your wickedness;” and in my vehemence I shook one of the great loose
stones that were on the top of the wall, which rolled down and bounded
into the ditch beside them; and the woman, huddling her cloak over her
head, began to run swiftly away from us, along the wall over which we were
leaning. The boy only stood still for a moment, and looked upwards towards
the place where we were, and then he also fled, but in the opposite
direction; and Dromo said to me in a very piteous whisper, but not till
both were out of sight,—“Heaven and earth! was ever such madness as to
scare the witch from her incantation? Alas! for you and for me, sir—and,
most of all, alas for Sextus—for I fear me after this we shall have no
luck in counteracting the designs of Rubellia.”
“Rubellia! what? can you possibly imagine Rubellia to have any thing to do
with this madness?”
“Imagine?” quoth he; “do you need to be told, that if things had gone well
with that woman and her ditch, we should never have been able to preserve
Sextus from her clutches?”
“By the rod of Hermes, good Dromo!” said I, “this will never do. I shall
believe much on your credit, but not things quite so extravagant as this.”
He made no reply save a long, incredulous, and, I think, contemptuous
whistle, which seemed to reach the ears of every owl between us and the
Appian; with such a hooting and screeching did they echo its note from
every cypress. And when Dromo heard that doleful concert, his dread
redoubled within him, for he shook from head to foot, while I held his arm
in mine; until, at last, he seemed to make one violent effort, and
springing on his feet, said—“Come, Master Valerius, let us behave after
all like men!”—I smiled when he said so—“The hour has not yet come, if my
Calabrian friend is to be trusted, at which the lady was to visit Pona in
her dwelling. It is but daring a little more. If she has seen and known us
already, then nothing can endanger us farther; and if she hath not, we may
escape again.”—“Well spoken,” said I, “most shrewd Dromo, and like
yourself; but what is it that you would have us to do?”—“The first thing,”
he replied, “is what has already been too long delayed.”
The Cretan produced from under his cloak a long fictitious beard, which he
immediately proceeded to fix upon his own face with a string. A thin tall
cap of black cloth was next brought forth, which he fastened in like
manner around his brows; and a little piece of chalk, with which he once
or twice rubbed over his black bushy eye-brows, completed a disguise
beneath which I should certainly have sought in vain to discover any trace
of the natural countenance of Dromo. In short, after a few changes in the
folding of his cloak, there stood before me a figure so venerably
mysterious, that had I met it unawares at midnight, in the neighbourhood
of so many tombs, I am not sure, although of no superstitious temper, that
I could have regarded it without awe.
“Come now, good Master,” quoth he, “you are taller than I, pluck me a
branch from the nearest tree, and I think you shall confess I make a
decent Soothsayer.” In this it was easy to gratify him; for there was an
old willow just a few yards off, and its boughs were so dry with age, that
I soon abstracted a very proper wand for him. After receiving which, he
stood for a moment leaning on it in a dignified fashion, as if to rehearse
an attitude worthy of his new vocation; and then said—“Well, sir, I think
if the Lady Rubellia comes now, we shall be tolerably prepared for her.
But I have no disguise for you; therefore, the moment you hear a footstep,
be sure you wrap your face in your gown, and stand behind me, for so shall
you best consult both your own concealment, and the dignity of this
Assyrian. There is no other way by which she can come from the Suburra,
therefore we might stay very well where we are; but I think it might be
still better to await her coming where there are either tombs or larger
trees to cast a shade over our equipage, in case the moon should take it
into her head to be more kind to us than she was to Pona.”—“By all means,”
said I, “most venerable man—and besides, the wind is rather chilly,
therefore I shall be well pleased to have shelter as well as shade.”
“You shall have both,” quoth he; “there is a thick grove of pines only a
little way on. I believe there is a very grand tomb in the midst of them,
in case you should prefer to sit under it.—By the bye,” he continued,
after some little pause, “it is odd enough that it should be so; but I
believe it is the very place where all that race of the Sempronii, to
which a certain young damsel belongs, have been burnt and buried ever
since Rome was a city. You cannot see their tomb yet; but that is only
from the thickness of the trees, some of which are, I suppose, even older
than itself. Now I remember me, it was just there that they set up two
winters ago the funeral pile of old Caius—I mean the father of the Lady
Athanasia, whom you saw at Capito’s villa. They are a very noble race, and
although none of the richest now-a-days, there is not a prouder in Rome. I
saw the procession at that old man’s funeral myself, and I think the
images of his ancestors that they carried before him, would have reached
half way from hence to the Great Road. Grim, dusty figures, I trow they
were; but I doubt not there had been many a haughty captain among them
when they were alive.”
These words were spoken as we were moving onwards towards this same grove
of pines, and before he had made an end of speaking, we could clearly hear
the wind sighing among their branches, and along the dry underground. And
on coming to them I found that he had said truly there was a tomb in the
midst of them, for a very noble, high, circular tower was indeed there,
which, from the grayness of its walls, and luxuriance of ivy, had the
appearance of being at least as ancient as any of the surrounding trees.
The only method of access to the inside, seemed to be by means of a
winding stair, which rose on the exterior from the ground to the summit—a
method not unusual in Roman sepulchres—and it was on one of the steps of
this stair that I seated myself, where, between the shaded wall on the one
side, and the pine branches on the other, I was effectually concealed. As
for Dromo, I know not whether it was that he coveted not exactly such
close proximity to the stones of such an edifice; but instead of ascending
with me, he took up a position beside one of the largest pines over
against me.
Although the moon had got rid of her clouds, and the sky, where any of it
could be seen, was abundantly brilliant, the natural darkness of that
funereal grove was such, that very little difference could be produced in
the midst of it by any variation on the face of any nightly luminary. The
tower itself received some of the moonbeams on its carved surface; but its
contemporary trees participated not in any such illumination,—one solemn
shade covering all things beneath the influence of their growth. “I can
scarcely see you, Dromo,” said I; “but I think that speck must be your
beard, and if so, I beg you would tell me what it is you really have in
view by all this preparation? Do you expect me to stay here on a
tomb-stone all night, merely because you wish to have an opportunity of
terrifying poor Rubellia by some ghost-like howl or other when she passes
you?—which, by the way, it seems by no means certain she will do at all.
Or what is your purpose?”—“Hush!” was his answer; “ask no questions, but
hem thrice if you hear a footstep—for young ears are the keenest.”
Accordingly silence was kept so strictly, that, in spite of the chillness
of the stone on which I sate, I presently fell into a sort of dozing
slumber.
By degrees, however,—nor, considering the hour and the fatigue I had
undergone, is it wonderful that it should have been so,—my sleep must have
become sufficiently profound, for I did not at first, on waking from it,
very well remember either where I was, or for what purpose I had come
thither. And, indeed, I have little doubt my slumbers might have continued
till day-break, but for the interruption I am now to mention.
And yet it seemed as if even in my sleep I had been prepared for this by
some strange anticipation, for although it was a near sound of singing
voices that dispelled my slumbers, and made me start from the stone on
which I had placed myself, I could not help feeling as if that sound were
not altogether new to me;—whether it were that the half-sensible ear had
been already ministering indistinctly to the dreaming spirit, or that some
purely fantastic prelude had been vouchsafed to the real music. I started
up suddenly, that much is certain, and listened with astonishment, yet not
altogether with such surprise as might have been expected to attend a
transition so hasty from sleep to waking, and from silence to the near
neighbourhood of sounds at once so strange and so sweet. With breathless
curiosity, nevertheless, with awe, and not entirely I think without
terror, did I listen to the notes which seemed to ascend out of the
habitation of the noble dead into the nightly air—wild, yet solemn, as if
breathed from the bosom of a stately repose and a pensive felicity;
insomuch, that almost I persuaded myself I was hearing the forbidden
sounds of another world, and the thought came over me,—yet almost I think
at that moment without farther disturbing me,—what fearful interpretations
the old poets have affixed to such untimely communion, and how the
superstition of all antiquity has shrunk from its omen.
My first impulse, after a moment had elapsed, was to call on Dromo, and I
did so, at first in a low whisper, and then two or three times more
loudly—but all equally in vain, for no answer was returned; and though I
strained my eyes in gazing on the place where I had last seen him, yet
there I could perceive no trace whatever of any human figure. The
moonlight indeed shewed with more distinctness than before the tall stem
of the old pine-tree against which he had been leaning; but no motion, nor
the least appearance of whiteness, could either my eyes or my imagination
discover there. I might easily, you will say, have stept across the road,
and entirely satisfied myself; but I know not well what it was that nailed
me to the place where I stood, and prevented me even from once thinking of
doing so. The calm sepulchral music, my friends, still continued to stream
from the recess of the mausoleum, and painless awe held me there, as if by
a charm incontrollable. I gazed upwards, and beheld the moon riding above
the black pine tops, in a now serene and cloudless heaven. The wind also
had passed away, as it appeared, with the clouds it had agitated. The bird
of night was asleep on her unseen bough; and all was silent as death,
except only the dwelling of the departed; and a certain indescribable
delight was beginning, as I gazed and listened, to be mixed with the
perturbation wherewith at first I had been inspired.
And I know not how long I might have stood so, but while I was yet
listening to this mysterious music, there was mingled with its expiring
cadence the sound of a heavy footstep on the staircase above me, and
looking up, I perceived in the moonlight the figure of a man, clad in a
white gown, but having a naked sword stretched forth in his hand,
immediately over the place whereon I was standing. I obeyed the first
natural impulse, and leaped downwards swiftly on seeing him; but this
availed me nothing, for he also leaped, and almost before my feet had
touched the ground, I felt the grasp of his hand upon my shoulder, and
that so strongly, that I perceived plainly there was as little possibility
of escape as of resistance. I made therefore no farther effort, but
suffered him to do with me as he pleased; and he, on his part, said not a
single word, but still retaining his hold, pointed with his sword to the
same steps from which I had descended, and compelled me to mount them
before him, up to the very summit of the round tower.
“Why is this, sir?” said I; “and whither do you conduct me?”
“Peace,” was all his answer; and, in like manner as he had made me climb
the exterior, so also he compelled me to begin the descent of a similar
flight of steps, which led down from an aperture above, into the interior
of the edifice. And although I must confess to you that I obeyed not this
silent guidance without considerable fear, yet I strove as well as I could
to control myself. I moved with a step in which I think not there could be
perceived any trembling.
Yet you will admit that even had I been master at that moment of less
firmness, I might have been excusable; for looking down, I perceived that
a lamp was burning in the midst of the sepulchral tower far below me, and
saw sitting around it a company of eight or ten persons, at whose mercy,
it was quite visible, I must be placed. Neither, if I might judge from the
demeanour of the person that was bringing me into their assembly, did
there appear to be any great room for dependance on them; for, as to
themselves, not one of them looked up towards me as I was stepping down,
and being wrapped in their cloaks, I had no means of discovering what
manner of persons they were. The way in which I had been treated, however,
by one of their number, was a sufficient evidence, either that they
conceived themselves to have been injured by my being there, or that they
were capable of taking some undue advantage of my helpless condition. The
calmness of their attitudes, and the recollection of the sounds that I had
heard, inclined me to the former of these suppositions; and when I
perceived that not one of them stirred, even till I had reached the
lowmost step of the interior staircase, in this, without question, I
already felt myself considerably strengthened.
“Behold,” said my guide, as I at length touched the marble floor of the
mausoleum itself—“Behold proof, and that living, that my suspicions were
not quite so groundless as you were pleased to imagine. Here is a man whom
I found listening, even on the very steps of this tower. It is for you to
decide what shall be done with the eaves-dropper.”
With this the whole company sprung at once to their feet, and I perceived
evidently, from the surprise expressed in their looks and attitudes, that
until that moment not one of them had been aware of my approach. I was
about to speak, and declare my innocence of any treachery, or even of any
knowledge concerning the purpose of their meeting; but before I could do
so, one of them, and I think the oldest of all that were present, having
in an instant recovered the tranquillity which my arrival had disturbed,
said to me in a voice of the utmost gentleness, “Young man, what has
brought thee hither, or who sent thee? Art thou indeed a spy, and was it
thy purpose to betray our assembly?”
“Sir,” said I, “I know nothing of your assembly, or of its purpose; I fell
asleep by accident on the outside of this tower, and, when I awoke, the
music that I heard detained me.”
“Examine the stripling,” quoth he that had conducted me—“examine his
person.”—“His looks belie him,” replied the senior, “if you have cause for
suspicion. But if you will it so, search the young man.” And with that my
guide, laying his unsheathed sword upon a table, or altar of black marble,
proceeded to search my garments, and finding in my bosom the scroll which
I had received from Tisias, he glanced on it for a moment, and then
handing it to the senior, said, “Now, sirs, doubt ye if ye will.”—“Before
heaven—it is the book of the holy Luke!” said the other; “this is indeed
suspicious. How came this scroll into thy hands, young man? Art thou aware
that one of the books of the Christians has been found in thy bosom?”—“I
know it,” said I; “it is one of the books of their faith, and I have read
in it this evening for the first time.”—“Then thou art not thyself a
Christian?”—“I received the book from one Christian,” said I, waiving the
question; “and I made promise to deliver it into the hands of
another?”—“Name the Christian who gave thee this book!” said my stern
guide.—“Tisias of Antioch,” I replied; “the same who died yesterday in the
Amphitheatre.”—“Yes,” quoth he, again; “and I suppose it was there he gave
it to you. Every one knows the name of Tisias. Name, if you please, the
person to whom you are to deliver the book.”—“You shall pardon me,” said
I, “that I will not. You may call me an eaves-dropper, if you will; but
you shall find I am no traitor. It is a Roman—a noble Roman lady to whom I
must give this book; and I would not tell you her name although you should
slaughter me here in this tomb, which I have entered living and without
guilt.” And having said this, I folded my arms, and stood still, abiding
their will.
But scarcely had I finished these words, ere I felt a small trembling hand
laid upon my shoulder, and looking round, I perceived Athanasia herself,
who whispered into my ear,—“Valerius, was the book for me? If so, you may
say it boldly, and I will vouch for your word.”—“For you, lady,” I
answered in the same tone, “and for none other. You well know that I was
present in his prison the night before his death; so far at least you can
confirm what I have said.”
“Sir,” said she, addressing the old man that had before questioned me, “I
know this young man: and I believe what he has said, and will be
answerable for his fidelity. It was he that went in to our friend the
other night in his prison, and the book was intrusted to him by the old
man, that it might be given into my hands. His name is Valerius—Caius
Valerius—and he is by birth a noble Roman.”
“Say you so, lady?” interrupted my original conductor; “then I ask his
pardon. I have wronged Caius Valerius; but both you and he must forgive
me, for it must be confessed he was found in a very extraordinary
situation.”
“Even so,” I replied, “I have nothing to complain of. I perceive that I am
present in an assembly of Christians; but he shall do me much wrong that
thinks I bear any enmity to them,—or, from all that I have yet seen or
read, to the faith which they profess. I have read part of that book,” I
continued, “for I made promise to Tisias that I should do so before giving
it to Athanasia; and I trust I shall still be permitted by her to read
more of it before it is finally demanded from me.”—“Oh, read it!” said
Athanasia, gently again whispering to me. “Oh yes, read the book,
Valerius, and may God enlighten the reader.” And so saying, she herself
took up the scroll from the table on which it was lying, and gave it again
into my hands.—“There was also a letter for you,” said I, receiving it,
“but that I left at home.”—“No matter,” said Athanasia, “you shall give me
the letter and the book both together hereafter.”
“In the meantime,” said I, “I suppose it were better I should retire.”
“Young sir,” said the senior, “that is as you please; in a little while we
shall all be moving towards the city. Stay with us till then, if such be
your will; that which you may hear, can at least do you no harm. Already,
I doubt not, you have seen enough to despise the ignorant calumnies of our
enemies.”
When he had said so, the old man walked to the side of the sepulchre, and
took out from behind one of the urns that stood there, (ranged in their
niches,) a small casquet, which, returning, he placed before him on the
marble table. Then, opening the casquet, he brought forth a silver goblet,
and a salver containing some little pieces of bread; and, untying from his
neck a massive cross of gold, he set that also on the table, between the
cup and the salver. In brief, the Christian priest, (for such, as you
already see, he was,) had finished his preparation, and was about to
commence the administration of the blessed Eucharist. And when all the
rest were kneeling before the table, Athanasia, laying her hand upon my
arm, beckoned to me to kneel by her side; and so indeed I would have done
in my ignorance, had not the priest himself pointed to a station a few
yards behind the lady, to which, accordingly, I drew back—apart from those
who were to be privileged with the participation of those holy symbols.
Scarcely had they composed themselves in their places, and listened to the
first words of the appointed service, when I, standing there by myself,
thought, unless my ears deceived me, there must be some one on the outer
stair-case of the tower; and my eyes instinctively, I suppose, were fixed
upon the aperture, which, as I have told you, was in the high roof above
the circle of the niched walls. Here, however, when I first looked, there
was nothing to be seen, but the round spot of the sky, far up in the midst
of the marble roof; but while I was looking steadfastly, that space was
suddenly diminished; and a dog bayed, and at the same moment a voice which
I well knew, screamed, “I have them—I hold them—let them burst the net if
they can.”
The cry of Pona disturbed effectually the Christian priest, and the whole
of those that were with him. Rising up hastily from their knees, they
stood all together around the table, while the old man, having kissed both
the cup and the cross, restored them as quickly as he could to the casket
from which they had been taken. But while the priest was doing this, he
that found me on the stair appearing to revert into his suspicion, and
looking sternly upon me where I stood, said, “Is this then the innocence
which we spared! Is this the noble Roman for whom Athanasia pledged
herself? Speak, brethren, what shall be done to this traitor, by whom,
even more than by those dogs of the tombs, it is a shame for us that we
have been hunted?” Saying so, the man lifted up his sword again, and it
seemed as if he would have smitten me to the ground without farther
question. But Athanasia threw herself swiftly between him and me. “For
shame, Cotilius,” said she; “such suspiciousness is unworthy of a Roman
knight.”—“You say well, noble damsel,” quoth the old priest, interrupting
her; “but you might say also that such cruelty is unworthy of a soldier of
Christ. Peace, peace, children; there is no evil in the youth, nor, if
there were, would it be our part to avenge it.”
While he was saying this, three or four blazing torches were thrust down
into the place from above, and Athanasia, laying her hand upon my arm,
said, “Look up, Caius, I see helmets.—Alas! am I not already here? why, if
they will slay me, should they drag me away now from the tomb of my
fathers?” I felt the trembling of her hands, and she leaned upon my
shoulder. I know not, I will confess to you, whether at that moment I
tasted more of pleasure or of pain.
But by this time several of the soldiers had already begun to descend into
the tower, and before another minute had elapsed, we found ourselves
surrounded by the flame of their torches. And he that seemed to lead the
party, after counting us one by one, said, turning to his companions,
“Well, an old woman has told the truth for once—here are even more I think
than she warned us of.—Come along, worthy people, you must not keep the
Tribune waiting for you all night, and our watch is well-nigh expired
already. Come, mount the stair—it will take a good half hour yet, I
believe, to lodge you all safely in the Tullian—And do you,” he added,
laying his hand on the hilt of Cotilius’ sword—“do you, brave sir, allow
me to save you the trouble of carrying this bauble.” Nor was the stern
knight so foolish as to dispute the command; but having yielded up his
sword, he forthwith began to ascend, one or two spearmen preceding him
with their torches. The priest followed, and so did the rest; the last
being Athanasia and myself.
On every side around the old tower, when I looked from the summit of it, I
perceived foot soldiers drawn up in a double line, while the road along
which I had come with Dromo, was occupied by a band of horsemen, one of
whom moved forward when he saw us descending, as if to take cognizance of
the number and quality of the surprised assembly. His long cloak being
muffled about his ears as he sate, and the shadow of his helmet falling
deeply, I did not at first suspect who it was; but he had not counted half
the party to the superior Officer behind him, ere I recognized him from
the sound of his voice; and who, think ye, should it be but my good friend
Sabinus?