Kenyon knew the sanctity which Hilda (faithful Protestant, and daughter
of the Puritans, as the girl was) imputed to this shrine. He was aware
of the profound feeling of responsibility, as well earthly as religious,
with which her conscience had been impressed, when she became the
occupant of her aerial chamber, and undertook the task of keeping the
consecrated lamp alight. There was an accuracy and a certainty about
Hilda's movements, as regarded all matters that lay deep enough to have
their roots in right or wrong, which made it as possible and safe to
rely upon the timely and careful trimming of this lamp (if she were in
life, and able to creep up the steps), as upon the rising of to-morrow's
sun, with lustre-undiminished from to-day.
The sculptor could scarcely believe his eyes, therefore, when he saw the
flame flicker and expire. His sight had surely deceived him. And now,
since the light did not reappear, there must be some smoke wreath
or impenetrable mist brooding about the tower's gray old head, and
obscuring it from the lower world. But no! For right over the dim
battlements, as the wind chased away a mass of clouds, he beheld a star,
and moreover, by an earnest concentration of his sight, was soon able to
discern even the darkened shrine itself. There was no obscurity around
the tower; no infirmity of his own vision. The flame had exhausted its
supply of oil, and become extinct. But where was Hilda?
A man in a cloak happened to be passing; and Kenyon--anxious to distrust
the testimony of his senses, if he could get more acceptable evidence on
the other side--appealed to him.
"Do me the favor, Signore," said he, "to look at the top of yonder
tower, and tell me whether you see the lamp burning at the Virgin's
shrine."
"The lamp, Signore?" answered the man, without at first troubling
himself to look up. "The lamp that has burned these four hundred years!
How is it possible, Signore, that it should not be burning now?" "But
look!" said the sculptor impatiently. With good-natured indulgence for
what he seemed to consider as the whim of an eccentric Forestiero, the
Italian carelessly threw his eyes upwards; but, as soon as he perceived
that there was really no light, he lifted his hands with a vivid
expression of wonder and alarm.
"The lamp is extinguished!" cried he. "The lamp that has been
burning these four hundred years! This surely must portend some great
misfortune; and, by my advice, Signore, you will hasten hence, lest the
tower tumble on our heads. A priest once told me that, if the Virgin
withdrew her blessing and the light went out, the old Palazzo del Torte
would sink into the earth, with all that dwell in it. There will be a
terrible crash before morning!"