In one such chapel, the guide showed them a low arch, beneath which the body of St. Cecilia had been buried after her martyrdom, and where it lay till a sculptor saw it, and rendered it forever beautiful in marble.

In a similar spot they found two sarcophagi, one containing a skeleton, and the other a shrivelled body, which still wore the garments of its former lifetime.

“How dismal all this is!” said Hilda, shuddering.  “I do not know why we came here, nor why we should stay a moment longer.”

“I hate it all!” cried Donatello with peculiar energy.  “Dear friends, let us hasten back into the blessed daylight!”

From the first, Donatello had shown little fancy for the expedition; for, like most Italians, and in especial accordance with the law of his own simple and physically happy nature, this young man had an infinite repugnance to graves and skulls, and to all that ghastliness which the Gothic mind loves to associate with the idea of death.  He shuddered, and looked fearfully round, drawing nearer to Miriam, whose attractive influence alone had enticed him into that gloomy region.

“What a child you are, poor Donatello!” she observed, with the freedom which she always used towards him.  “You are afraid of ghosts!”

“Yes, signorina; terribly afraid!” said the truthful Donatello.

“I also believe in ghosts,” answered Miriam, “and could tremble at them, in a suitable place.  But these sepulchres are so old, and these skulls and white ashes so very dry, that methinks they have ceased to be haunted.  The most awful idea connected with the catacombs is their interminable extent, and the possibility of going astray into this labyrinth of darkness, which broods around the little glimmer of our tapers.”

“Has any one ever been lost here?” asked Kenyon of the guide.

“Surely, signor; one, no longer ago than my father’s time,” said the guide; and he added, with the air of a man who believed what he was telling, “but the first that went astray here was a pagan of old Rome, who hid himself in order to spy out and betray the blessed saints, who then dwelt and worshipped in these dismal places.  You have heard the story, signor?  A miracle was wrought upon the accursed one; and, ever since (for fifteen centuries at least), he has been groping in the darkness, seeking his way out of the catacomb.”

“Has he ever been seen?” asked Hilda, who had great and tremulous faith in marvels of this kind.

“These eyes of mine never beheld him, signorina; the saints forbid!” answered the guide.  “But it is well known that he watches near parties that come into the catacomb, especially if they be heretics, hoping to lead some straggler astray.  What this lost wretch pines for, almost as much as for the blessed sunshine, is a companion to be miserable with him.”

“Such an intense desire for sympathy indicates something amiable in the poor fellow, at all events,” observed Kenyon.