I made no answer.  I moved from her side, and taking matches from my pocket, I lighted up six large candles which I had fixed in various corners of the vault the night previously.  Dazzled by the glare after the intense darkness, she did not at once perceive the nature of the place in which she stood.  I watched her, myself still wrapped in the heavy cloak and hat that so effectually disguised my features.  What a sight she was in that abode of corruption!  Lovely, delicate, and full of life, with the shine of her diamonds gleaming from under the folds of rich fur that shrouded her, and the dark hood falling back as though to display the sparkling wonder of her gold hair.

Suddenly, and with a violent shock, she realized the gloom of her surroundings—­the yellow flare of the waxen torches showed her the stone niches, the tattered palls, the decaying trophies of armor, the drear shapes of worm-eaten coffins, and with a shriek of horror she rushed to me where I stood, as immovable as a statue clad in coat of mail, and throwing her arms about me clung to me in a frenzy of fear.

“Take me away, take me away!” she moaned, hiding her face against my breast. “’Tis a vault—­oh, Santissima Madonna!—­a place for the dead!  Quick—­quick! take me out to the air—­let us go home—­home—­”

She broke off abruptly, her alarm increasing at my utter silence.  She gazed up at me with wild wet eyes.

“Cesare!  Cesare! speak!  What ails you?  Why have you brought me here?  Touch me—­kiss me! say something—­anything—­only speak!”

And her bosom heaved convulsively; she sobbed with terror.

I put her from me with a firm hand.  I spoke in measured accents, tinged with some contempt.

“Hush, I pray you!  This is no place for an hysterical scena.  Consider where you are!  You have guessed aright—­this is a vault—­ your own mausoleum, fair lady!—­if I mistake not—­the burial-place of the Romani family.”

At these words her sobs ceased, as though they had been frozen in her throat; she stared at me in speechless fear and wonder.

“Here,” I went on with methodical deliberation, “here lie all the great ancestors of your husband’s family, heroes and martyrs in their day.  Here will your own fair flesh molder.  Here,” and my voice grew deeper and more resolute, “here, six months ago, your husband himself, Fabio Romani, was buried.”

She uttered no sound, but gazed at me like some beautiful pagan goddess turned to stone by the Furies.  Having spoken thus far I was silent, watching the effect of what I had said, for I sought to torture the very nerves of her base soul.  At last her dry lips parted—­her voice was hoarse and indistinct.

“You must be mad!” she said, with smothered anger and horror in her tone.

Then seeing me still immovable, she advanced and caught my hand half commandingly, half coaxingly.  I did not resist her.

“Come,” she implored, “come away at once!” and she glanced about her with a shudder.  “Let us leave this horrible place; as for the jewels, if you keep them here, they may stay here; I would not wear them for the world!  Come.”