"If I die," I
thought, "it must not be by inches, but at once, at a blow." I was
preparing to dash my head desperately against the wall, and thus put an
end to my misery, but lacking strength, I fell down once more exhausted. When I again awoke I felt both hungry and thirsty. The wound in my head
had ceased to bleed, but the handkerchief was saturated. I now felt the
calmness of despair. I knew nothing short of a miracle could save me, so
I tried to reconcile myself to my condition. I could just walk, but
slowly. I tried to retrace my steps, though at a snail's pace and
without a clue. The hopelessness of my condition now dawned upon me more clearly than
ever. It was impossible even to retrace my steps alone and in the dark,
especially in my weakened state. Why should I uselessly try a thing I
knew to be impossible? Why not lie quietly down and die? I sank
helplessly on the ground and gave up all hope. I felt that my end was
not far off, and began to review my past life. The errors, the follies,
the crimes during my brief existence chased each other with painful
vividness and rapidity through my memory. Not even the most trifling
incident of my childhood was forgotten, but every event and thought of
my life vividly, exactly and distinctly, traced with indelible finger
upon the tablets of my brain, passing before my mental vision like a
vast panorama. It was then that I ventured to pray, and if I never prayed in my whole
life before, I did then. Well can I remember the agony of remorse I felt
for the precious time I had wasted. I was then five and twenty, a
quarter of a century old, and what had I yet done to benefit my fellow
creatures? and what had I not done that lay in my power to gratify my
own selfish wants? Could I call to mind even one _thoroughly_ good act? Were not even my best actions based upon a sort of selfishness? How I
longed to live over again those five and twenty years! What resolutions did I not make to turn over a new leaf for the future
if my Creator should be pleased to spare my young life! I prayed
fervently and devoutly, such praying as only the most intense mental
agony can prompt the soul to, until my nervous system, overcome with
excessive tension, I sank into a sort of lethargy, something between
life and death. Emerging at length somewhat from this state, I began to
meditate thus:--

Is it possible that my young life is to be cut short in this manner? Is
this what I was born for--to perish miserably from the ill-consequences
of a foolish though innocent freak--or will the Almighty really hear my
prayer? Have I not prayed fervently with all my heart and soul, and has
He not promised to help those who trust in Him? I _will_ trust in Him. I
will _not_ believe that the age of miracles has gone by never to return. Miracles are wrought daily, though we do not acknowledge them as such. I
felt a calmness and resignation at these thoughts, and almost
indifferent if the Lord should be pleased to take my soul, or work some
miracle to save me from a lingering death. Either way I would have been
content, for I now felt prepared to die, and had no fear of death. I endeavoured to keep my faith in the mercy of my Creator firm and
unwavering. If for a moment a slight doubt rose in my mind as to the
likelihood of the Deity working a miracle for my special benefit, it was
instantly dismissed, and I prayed more earnestly. I _would_ believe, I
would _not_ be robbed of my faith by the jeering of that mocking fiend,
Doubt. I persisted in believing, and Doubt fled from me. I _felt_ I
should be saved. I _knew_ it. While thus meditating, methought that the extreme end of one of these
long corridors had grown a trifle lighter than it was a minute ago. Was
it a mistake, and merely the effect of my eyesight having grown
accustomed to the darkness? No, for the light now grew rapidly brighter. Could it be that the monks
were coming in search of me? Yes--no, for I now saw a solitary figure in the distance bearing a
candle, but it was not the figure of a monk, for the garb was white, and
apparently that of a female. I held my breath in wonder and expectation,
whilst my heart thumped so loudly against my ribs that it might have
caused an echo. My eyes were steadfastly fixed on the figure as it moved
slowly towards me. It was undoubtedly the figure of a woman clad in a
long white classic robe and a white head covering, such as worn by the
priestesses of old. The shoulders and arms were bare, and on one arm she
wore a golden armlet, on her feet sandals. She was now sufficiently near
me for me to take a complete survey of her. Her face was pale and
dreadfully emaciated, yet there were traces of great beauty left. She
mumbled something to herself which at first I took for Italian, but on
catching a word or two more, I had no difficulty in discovering it to be
Latin, for she repeatedly muttered to herself the word "Peccavi,"
beating her breast the while. I rose to my feet as she approached. At
first she appeared not to notice me and would have passed me. At length
I addressed her in Italian. "Signora," I began, "I have lost my way in
the dark and am suffering from an accident; perhaps you can show me the
way out of these catacombs, for I am weak and dying of hunger." The figure gazed blankly at me in silence, which I attributed not so
much to surprise as to her not understanding the language in which I
addressed her. At length she spoke in a faint sepulchral voice. "_Quis es tu qui in hoc loco versaris?_"

To which I replied in the same classic tongue in which she addressed me. "_Christianus sum, tu autem quis es?_" I am a Christian, but who art
thou? To which she gave the following account of herself. "_Virgo Vestalis sum, aut possius eram; nunc autem nec virgo nec
vestalis._"

"_Intelligo_," I answered--I understand--not willing to extort a
confession that might be painful to her, but she seemed communicative
and inclined to enlighten me further. "_Audi!_" she continued, "_quandam eram in mundo virum amavi. Christianus erat, et propter meum crimen quod perpetravi cum viro hoc
Christiano, ad mortem damnata viva sepulta fui. Attaman cum ante meam
mortem fuerim ad Christifidem conversa, nunc meus spiritus hac illuc hoc
in loco versatur._"

I expressed my deepest sympathy for her sufferings in the best Latin I
could muster, and indeed I was well able to sympathise with her, for did
not _I_ feel what it was to be buried alive and to endure the gnawing
pangs of hunger? "Alas, poor ghost!" I felt inclined to say, with Hamlet, and I could not
help muttering to myself, "How hard, alas!--just for one fault, for one
piece of human frailty, resulting from the over tenderness of a woman's
heart, to die such a horrible death." "_An es estraneus in hoc loco?_" she asked me, having overheard my
soliloquy and perceiving that it was in a foreign tongue.