The Marble Faun Volume 1 - Page 14/130

"Surely, she cannot be lost!" exclaimed Kenyon. "It is but a moment since

she was speaking."

"No, no!" said Hilda, in great alarm. "She was behind us all; and it is

a long while since we have heard her voice!"

"Torches! torches!" cried Donatello desperately. "I will seek her, be

the darkness ever so dismal!"

But the guide held him back, and assured them all that there was no

possibility of assisting their lost companion, unless by shouting at

the very top of their voices. As the sound would go very far along these

close and narrow passages, there was a fair probability that Miriam

might hear the call, and be able to retrace her steps.

Accordingly, they all--Kenyon with his bass voice; Donatello with his

tenor; the guide with that high and hard Italian cry, which makes the

streets of Rome so resonant; and Hilda with her slender scream, piercing

farther than the united uproar of the rest--began to shriek, halloo, and

bellow, with the utmost force of their lungs. And, not to prolong the

reader's suspense (for we do not particularly seek to interest him

in this scene, telling it only on account of the trouble and strange

entanglement which followed), they soon heard a responsive call, in a

female voice.

"It was the signorina!" cried Donatello joyfully.

"Yes; it was certainly dear Miriam's voice," said Hilda. "And here she

comes! Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven!"

The figure of their friend was now discernible by her own torchlight,

approaching out of one of the cavernous passages. Miriam came forward,

but not with the eagerness and tremulous joy of a fearful girl, just

rescued from a labyrinth of gloomy mystery. She made no immediate

response to their inquiries and tumultuous congratulations; and, as they

afterwards remembered, there was something absorbed, thoughtful, and

self-concentrated in her deportment. She looked pale, as well she might,

and held her torch with a nervous grasp, the tremor of which was seen

in the irregular twinkling of the flame. This last was the chief

perceptible sign of any recent agitation or alarm.

"Dearest, dearest Miriam," exclaimed Hilda, throwing her arms about her

friend, "where have you been straying from us? Blessed be Providence,

which has rescued you out of that miserable darkness!"

"Hush, dear Hilda!" whispered Miriam, with a strange little laugh. "Are

you quite sure that it was Heaven's guidance which brought me back?

If so, it was by an odd messenger, as you will confess. See; there he

stands."

Startled at Miriam's words and manner, Hilda gazed into the duskiness

whither she pointed, and there beheld a figure standing just on the

doubtful limit of obscurity, at the threshold of the small, illuminated

chapel. Kenyon discerned him at the same instant, and drew nearer with

his torch; although the guide attempted to dissuade him, averring that,

once beyond the consecrated precincts of the chapel, the apparition

would have power to tear him limb from limb. It struck the sculptor,

however, when he afterwards recurred to these circumstances, that the

guide manifested no such apprehension on his own account as he professed

on behalf of others; for he kept pace with Kenyon as the latter

approached the figure, though still endeavoring to restrain 'him.