In fine, they both drew near enough to get as good a view of the spectre

as the smoky light of their torches, struggling with the massive gloom,

could supply.

The stranger was of exceedingly picturesque, and even melodramatic

aspect. He was clad in a voluminous cloak, that seemed to be made of a

buffalo's hide, and a pair of those goat-skin breeches, with the hair

outward, which are still commonly worn by the peasants of the Roman

Campagna. In this garb, they look like antique Satyrs; and, in truth,

the Spectre of the Catacomb might have represented the last survivor

of that vanished race, hiding himself in sepulchral gloom, and mourning

over his lost life of woods and streams.

Furthermore, he had on a broad-brimmed, conical hat, beneath the shadow

of which a wild visage was indistinctly seen, floating away, as it were,

into a dusky wilderness of mustache and beard. His eyes winked, and

turned uneasily from the torches, like a creature to whom midnight would

be more congenial than noonday.

On the whole, the spectre might have made a considerable impression

on the sculptor's nerves, only that he was in the habit of observing

similar figures, almost every day, reclining on the Spanish steps,

and waiting for some artist to invite them within the magic realm of

picture. Nor, even thus familiarized with the stranger's peculiarities

of appearance, could Kenyon help wondering to see such a personage,

shaping himself so suddenly out of the void darkness of the catacomb.

"What are you?" said the sculptor, advancing his torch nearer. "And how

long have you been wandering here?"

"A thousand and five hundred years!" muttered the guide, loud enough to

be heard by all the party. "It is the old pagan phantom that I told you

of, who sought to betray the blessed saints!"

"Yes; it is a phantom!" cried Donatello, with a shudder. "Ah, dearest

signorina, what a fearful thing has beset you in those dark corridors!"

"Nonsense, Donatello," said the sculptor. "The man is no more a phantom

than yourself. The only marvel is, how he comes to be hiding himself in

the catacomb. Possibly our guide might solve the riddle."

The spectre himself here settled the point of his tangibility, at all

events, and physical substance, by approaching a step nearer, and laying

his hand on Kenyon's arm.

"Inquire not what I am, nor wherefore I abide in the darkness," said he,

in a hoarse, harsh voice, as if a great deal of damp were clustering in

his throat. "Henceforth, I am nothing but a shadow behind her footsteps.

She came to me when I sought her not. She has called me forth, and must

abide the consequences of my reappearance in the world."

"Holy Virgin! I wish the signorina joy of her prize," said the guide,

half to himself. "And in any case, the catacomb is well rid of him."




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