“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.”

“Donatello,” said Miriam, coming close to the young man, and speaking low, but still the almost insanity of the moment vibrating in her voice, “if you love yourself; if you desire those earthly blessings, such as you, of all men, were made for; if you would come to a good old age among your olive orchards and your Tuscan vines, as your forefathers did; if you would leave children to enjoy the same