igure 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 loc