s saw and spoke to Miriam, in a coach,
with a gem glowing on her bosom. What was the business of these two
guilty ones in Rome, and who was Miriam's companion?"

"Who!" repeated Kenyon, "why, her official relative, to be sure; and
as to their business, Donatello's still gnawing remorse had brought him
hitherward, in spite of Miriam's entreaties, and kept him lingering
in the neighborhood of Rome, with the ultimate purpose of delivering
himself up to justice. Hilda's disappearance, which took place the day
before, was known to them through a secret channel, and had brought them
into the city, where Miriam, as I surmise, began to make arrangements,
even then, for that sad frolic of the Carnival."

"And where was Hilda all that dreary time between?" inquired I.

"Where were you, Hilda?" asked Kenyon, smiling.

Hilda threw her eyes on all sides, and seeing that there was not even a
bird of the air to fly away with the secret, nor any human being nearer
than the loiterers by the obelisk in the piazza below, she told us about
her mysterious abode.

"I was a prisoner in the Convent of the Sacre Coeur, in the Trinita
de Monte," said she, "but in such kindly custody of pious maidens, and
watched over by such a dear old priest, that--had it not been for one
or two disturbing recollections, and also because I am a daughter of the
Puritans I could willingly have dwelt there forever.

"My entanglement with Miriam's misfortunes, and the good abbate's
mistaken hope of a proselyte, seem to me a sufficient clew to the whole
mystery."

"The atmosphere is getting delightfully lucid," observed I, "but there
are one or two things that still puzzle me. Could you tell me--and it
shall be kept a profound secret, I assure you what were Miriam's real
name and rank, and precisely the nature of the troubles that led to all
those direful consequences?"

"Is it possible that you need an answer to those questions?" exclaimed
Kenyon, with an aspect of vast surprise. "Have you not even surmised
Miriam's name? Think awhile, and you will assuredly remember it. If not,
I congratulate you most sincerely; for it indicates that your feelings
have never been harrowed by one of the most dreadful and mysterious
events that have occurred within the present century!"

"Well," resumed I, after an interval of deep consideration, "I have but
few things more to ask. Where, at this moment, is Donatello?"

"The Castle of Saint Angelo," said Kenyon sadly, tur