He suspected that the groans proceeded from the statue: the more he listened the more was he confirmed in this idea. He drew nearer to the image, designing to inspect it more closely: but perceiving his intention, the nuns besought him for God’s sake to desist, since, if he touched the statue, his death was inevitable.
“And in what consists the danger?” said he.
“Mother of God! In what?” replied Helena, ever eager to relate a miraculous adventure: “If you had only heard the hundredth part of those marvellous stories about this statue, which the domina used to recount! She assured us often and often, that if we only dared to lay a finger upon it, we might expect the most fatal consequences. Among other things she told us, that a robber having entered these vaults by night, he observed yonder ruby, whose value is inestimable. Do you see it, Segnor? It sparkles upon the third finger of the hand in which she holds a crown of thorns. This jewel naturally excited the villain’s cupidity. He resolved to make himself master of it. For this purpose he ascended the pedestal; he supported himself by grasping the saint’s right arm, and extended his own towards the ring. What was his surprise, when he saw the statue’s hand raised in a posture of menace, and heard her lips pronounce his eternal perdition! Penetrated with awe and consternation, he desisted from his attempt, and prepared to quit the sepulchre. In this he also failed. Flight was denied him. He found it impossible to disengage the hand which rested upon the right arm of the statue. In vain did he struggle: he remained fixed to the image, till the insupportable and fiery anguish which darted itself through his veins, compelled his shrieking for assistance. The sepulchre was now filled with spectators. The villain confessed his sacrilege, and was only released by the separation of his hand from his body. It has remained ever since fastened to the image. The robber turned hermit, and led ever after an exemplary life. But yet the saint’s decree was performed; and tradition says, that he continues to haunt this sepulchre, and implore St. Clare’s pardon with groans and lamentations. Now I think of it, those which we have just heard, may very possibly have been uttered by the ghost of this sinner: but of this I will not be positive. All that I can say is, that since that time no one has ever dared to touch the statue. Then do not be fool-hardy, good Segnor! For the love of heaven, give up your design, nor expose yourself unnecessarily to certain destruction.”
Not being convinced that his destruction would be so certain as Helena seemed to think it, Lorenzo persisted in his resolution. The nuns besought him to desist, in piteous terms, and even pointed out the robber’s hand, which was in effect still visible upon the arm of the statue. This proof, as they imagined, must convince him. It was very far from doing so; and they were greatly scandalized when he declared his suspicion that the dried and shrivelled fingers had been placed there by order of the prioress. In spite of their prayers and threats he approached the statue. He sprang over the iron rails which defended it, and the saint underwent a thorough examination. The image at first appeared to be of stone, but proved on further inspection to be formed of no more solid materials than coloured wood. He shook it, and attempted to move it: but it appeared to be of a piece with the base which it stood upon. He examined it over and over: still no clue guided him to the solution of this mystery, for which the nuns were become equally solicitous, when they saw that he touched the statue with impunity. He paused, and listened: the groans were repeated at intervals, and he was convinced of being in the spot nearest to them. He mused upon this singular event, and ran over the statue with enquiring eyes. Suddenly they rested upon the shrivelled hand. It struck him, that so particular an injunction was not given without cause, not to touch the arm of the image. He again ascended the pedestal: he examined the object of his attention, and discovered a small knob of iron concealed between the saint’s shoulder and what was supposed to have been the hand of the robber. This observation delighted him. He applied his fingers to the knob, and pressed it down forcibly. Immediately a rumbling noise was heard within the statue, as if a chain tightly stretched was flying back. Startled at the sound, the timid nuns started away, prepared to hasten from the vault at the first appearance of danger. All remaining quiet and still, they again gathered round Lorenzo, and beheld his proceedings with anxious curiosity.
Finding that nothing followed this discovery, he descended. As he took his hand from the saint, she trembled beneath his touch. This created new terrors in the spectators, who believed the statue to be animated. Lorenzo’s ideas upon the subject were widely different. He easily comprehended, that the noise which he had heard was occasioned by his having loosened a chain which attached the image to its pedestal. He once more attempted to move it, and succeeded without much exertion. He placed it upon the ground, and then perceived the pedestal to be hollow, and covered at the opening with an heavy iron grate.
This excited such general curiosity, that the sisters forgot both their real and imaginary dangers. Lorenzo proceeded to raise the grate, in which the nuns assisted him to the utmost of their strength. The attempt was accomplished with little difficulty. A deep abyss now presented itself before them, whose thick obscurity the eye strove in vain to pierce. The rays of the lamp were too feeble to be of much assistance. Nothing was discernible, save a flight of rough unshapen steps, which sank into the yawning gulph, and were soon lost in darkness. The groans were heard no more: but all believed them to have ascended from this cavern. As he bent over it, Lorenzo fancied that he distinguished something bright twinkling through the gloom. He gazed attentively upon the spot where it showed itself, and was convinced, that he saw a small spark of light, now visible, now disappearing. He communicated this circumstance to the nuns: they also perceived the spark: but when he declared his intention to descend into the cave, they united to oppose his resolution. All their remonstrances could not prevail on him to alter it. None of them had courage enough to accompany him; neither could he think of depriving them of the lamp. Alone therefore, and in darkness, he prepared to pursue his design, while the nuns were contented to offer up prayers for his success and safety.
The steps were so narrow and uneven, that to descend them was like walking down the side of a precipice. The obscurity by which he was surrounded, rendered his footing insecure. He was obliged to proceed with great caution, lest he should miss the steps, and fall into the gulph below him. This he was several times on the point of doing. However, he arrived sooner upon solid ground than he had expected. He now found, that the thick darkness and impenetrable mists which reigned through the cavern, had deceived him into the belief of its being much more profound than it proved upon inspection. He reached the foot of the stairs unhurt: he now stopped, and looked round for the spark, which had before caught his attention. He sought it in vain: all was dark and gloomy. He listened for the groans; but his ear caught no sound except the distant murmur of the nuns above, as in low voices they repeated their ave-marias. He stood irresolute to which side he should address his steps. At all events he determined to proceed: he did so, but slowly, fearful lest, instead of approaching, he should be retiring from the object of his search. The groans seemed to announce one in pain, or at least in sorrow, and he hoped to have the power of relieving the mourner’s calamities. A plaintive tone, sounding at no great distance, at length reached his hearing: he bent his course joyfully towards it. It became more audible as he advanced; and he soon beheld again the spark of light, which a low projecting wall had hitherto concealed from him.
It proceeded from a small lamp which was placed upon an heap of stones, and whose faint and melancholy rays served rather to point out than dispel the horrors of a narrow gloomy dungeon, formed in one side of the cavern: it also shewed several other recesses of similar construction, but whose depth was buried in obscurity. Coldly played the light upon the damp walls, whose dew-stained surface gave back a feeble reflection. A thick and pestilential fog clouded the height of the vaulted dungeon. As Lorenzo advanced, he felt a piercing chillness spread itself through his veins. The frequent groans still engaged him to move forwards. He turned towards them, and by the lamp’s glimmering beams beheld, in a corner of this loathsome abode, a creature stretched upon a bed of straw, so wretched, so emaciated, so pale, that he doubted to think her woman. She was half naked: her long dishevelled hair fell in disorder over her face, and almost entirely concealed it. One wasted arm hung listlessly upon a tattered rug, which covered her convulsed and shivering limbs: the other was wrapped round a small bundle, and held it closely to her bosom. A large rosary lay near her: opposite to her was a crucifix, on which she bent her sunk eyes fixedly, and by her side stood a basket and a small earthen pitcher.
Lorenzo stopped: he was petrified with horror. He gazed upon the miserable object with disgust and pity. He trembled at the spectacle: he grew sick at heart: his strength failed him, and his limbs were unable to support his weight. He was obliged to lean against the low wall which was near him, unable to go forward or to address the sufferer. She cast her eyes towards the stair-case: the wall concealed Lorenzo, and she observed him not.
“No one comes!” she at length murmured.
As she spoke, her voice was hollow, and rattled in her throat: she sighed bitterly.
“No one comes!” she repeated: “no! they have forgotten me! they will come no more!”
She paused for a moment; then continued mournfully:
“Two days! two long, long days, and yet no food! and yet no hope, no comfort! Foolish woman! how can I wish to lengthen a life so wretched!—Yet such a death! O God! to perish by such a death! to linger out such ages in torture! Till now, I knew not what it was to hunger!—Hark!—No! no one comes: they will come no more.”
