ures.
They peeped through open doors into rooms where history seemed to be
re-lived. The rooms were lighted each by its own sun, or lamp, or
candle. The spectators walked among shadows that might have oppressed a
nervous person.

"Fine, eh?" said Vincent.

"Yes," said Edward; "it's wonderful."

A turn of a corner brought them to a room. Marie Antoinette fainting,
supported by her ladies; poor fat Louis by the window looking literally
sick.

"What's the matter with them all?" said Edward.

"Look at the window," said Vincent.

There was a window to the room. Outside was sunshine--the sunshine of
1792--and, gleaming in it, blonde hair flowing, red mouth half open,
what seemed the just-severed head of a beautiful woman. It was raised on
a pike, so that it seemed to be looking in at the window.

"I say!" said Edward, and the head on the pike seemed to sway before his
eyes.

"Madame de Lamballe. Good thing, isn't it?" said Vincent.

"It's altogether too much of a good thing," said Edward. "Look
here--I've had enough of this."

"Oh, you must just see the Catacombs," said Vincent; "nothing bloody,
you know. Only Early Christians being married and baptized, and all
that."

He led the way, down some clumsy steps to the cellars which the genius
of a great artist has transformed into the exact semblance of the old
Catacombs at Rome. The same rough hewing of rock, the same sacred
tokens engraved strongly and simply; and among the arches of these
subterranean burrowings the life of the Early Christians, their
sacraments, their joys, their sorrows--all expressed in groups of
wax-work as like life as Death is.

"But this is very fine, you know," said Edward, getting his breath again
after Madame de Lamballe, and his imagination loved the thought of the
noble sufferings and refrainings of these first lovers of the Crucified
Christ.

"Yes," said Vincent for the third time; "isn't it?"

They passed the baptism and the burying and the marriage. The tableaux
were sufficiently lighted, but little light strayed to the narrow
passage where the two men walked, and the darkness seemed to press,
tangible as a bodily presence, against Edward's shoulder. He glanced
backward.

"Come," he said, "I've had enough."

"Come on, then," said Vincent.

They turned the corner--and a blaze of Italian sunlight struck at their
eyes with positive dazzlement. There lay the Coliseum--tier on tier of
eager faces under the blue sky of Italy.