"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."