"He gets small thanks, I fear, from the people whose bloody instincts

he pampered," rejoined Kenyon. "Fancy a nightly assemblage of eighty

thousand melancholy and remorseful ghosts, looking down from those tiers

of broken arches, striving to repent of the savage pleasures which they

once enjoyed, but still longing to enjoy them over again."

"You bring a Gothic horror into this peaceful moonlight scene," said

Hilda.

"Nay, I have good authority for peopling the Coliseum with phantoms,"

replied the sculptor. "Do you remember that veritable scene in Benvenuto

Cellini's autobiography, in which a necromancer of his acquaintance

draws a magic circle--just where the black cross stands now, I

suppose--and raises myriads of demons? Benvenuto saw them with his

own eyes,--giants, pygmies, and other creatures of frightful aspect,

capering and dancing on yonder walls. Those spectres must have been

Romans, in their lifetime, and frequenters of this bloody amphitheatre."

"I see a spectre, now!" said Hilda, with a little thrill of uneasiness.

"Have you watched that pilgrim, who is going round the whole circle of

shrines, on his knees, and praying with such fervency at every one? Now

that he has revolved so far in his orbit, and has the moonshine on his

face as he turns towards us, methinks I recognize him!"

"And so do I," said Kenyon. "Poor Miriam! Do you think she sees him?"

They looked round, and perceived that Miriam had risen from the steps of

the shrine and disappeared. She had shrunk back, in fact, into the deep

obscurity of an arch that opened just behind them.

Donatello, whose faithful watch was no more to be eluded than that of

a hound, had stolen after her, and became the innocent witness of a

spectacle that had its own kind of horror. Unaware of his presence,

and fancying herself wholly unseen, the beautiful Miriam began to

gesticulate extravagantly, gnashing her teeth, flinging her arms wildly

abroad, stamping with her foot.

It was as if she had stepped aside for an instant, solely to snatch the

relief of a brief fit of madness. Persons in acute trouble, or laboring

under strong excitement, with a necessity for concealing it, are prone

to relieve their nerves in this wild way; although, when practicable,

they find a more effectual solace in shrieking aloud.

Thus, as soon as she threw off her self-control, under the dusky arches

of the Coliseum, we may consider Miriam as a mad woman, concentrating

the elements of a long insanity into that instant.

"Signorina! signorina! have pity on me!" cried Donatello, approaching

her; "this is too terrible!"

"How dare you look, at me!" exclaimed Miriam, with a start; then,

whispering below her breath, "men have been struck dead for a less

offence!"

"If you desire it, or need it," said Donatello humbly, "I shall not be

loath to die."




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