"Surely, she cannot be lost!" exclaimed Kenyon. "It is but a moment since
she was speaking."
"No, no!" said Hilda, in great alarm. "She was behind us all; and it is
a long while since we have heard her voice!"
"Torches! torches!" cried Donatello desperately. "I will seek her, be
the darkness ever so dismal!"
But the guide held him back, and assured them all that there was no
possibility of assisting their lost companion, unless by shouting at
the very top of their voices. As the sound would go very far along these
close and narrow passages, there was a fair probability that Miriam
might hear the call, and be able to retrace her steps.
Accordingly, they all--Kenyon with his bass voice; Donatello with his
tenor; the guide with that high and hard Italian cry, which makes the
streets of Rome so resonant; and Hilda with her slender scream, piercing
farther than the united uproar of the rest--began to shriek, halloo, and
bellow, with the utmost force of their lungs. And, not to prolong the
reader's suspense (for we do not particularly seek to interest him
in this scene, telling it only on account of the trouble and strange
entanglement which followed), they soon heard a responsive call, in a
female voice.
"It was the signorina!" cried Donatello joyfully.
"Yes; it was certainly dear Miriam's voice," said Hilda. "And here she
comes! Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven!"
The figure of their friend was now discernible by her own torchlight,
approaching out of one of the cavernous passages. Miriam came forward,
but not with the eagerness and tremulous joy of a fearful girl, just
rescued from a labyrinth of gloomy mystery. She made no immediate
response to their inquiries and tumultuous congratulations; and, as they
afterwards remembered, there was something absorbed, thoughtful, and
self-concentrated in her deportment. She looked pale, as well she might,
and held her torch with a nervous grasp, the tremor of which was seen
in the irregular twinkling of the flame. This last was the chief
perceptible sign of any recent agitation or alarm.
"Dearest, dearest Miriam," exclaimed Hilda, throwing her arms about her
friend, "where have you been straying from us? Blessed be Providence,
which has rescued you out of that miserable darkness!"
"Hush, dear Hilda!" whispered Miriam, with a strange little laugh. "Are
you quite sure that it was Heaven's guidance which brought me back?
If so, it was by an odd messenger, as you will confess. See; there he
stands."
Startled at Miriam's words and manner, Hilda gazed into the duskiness
whither she pointed, and there beheld a figure standing just on the
doubtful limit of obscurity, at the threshold of the small, illuminated
chapel. Kenyon discerned him at the same instant, and drew nearer with
his torch; although the guide attempted to dissuade him, averring that,
once beyond the consecrated precincts of the chapel, the apparition
would have power to tear him limb from limb. It struck the sculptor,
however, when he afterwards recurred to these circumstances, that the
guide manifested no such apprehension on his own account as he professed
on behalf of others; for he kept pace with Kenyon as the latter
approached the figure, though still endeavoring to restrain 'him.