Lorenzo enquired, whither the wicket led? He was answered, to the garden of the Capuchins, and it was resolved to explore an outlet upon that side. Accordingly the duke raised the latch, and passed into the adjoining cemetery. The attendants followed without ceremony. Lorenzo, being the last, was also on the point of quitting the colonnade, when he saw the door of the sepulchre opened softly. Someone looked out, but on perceiving strangers uttered a loud shriek, started back again, and flew down the marble stairs.
“What can this mean?” cried Lorenzo; “Here is some mystery concealed. Follow me without delay!”
Thus saying, he hastened into the sepulchre, and pursued the person who continued to fly before him. The duke knew not the cause of his exclamation, but supposing that he had good reasons for it, he followed him without hesitation. The others did the same, and the whole party soon arrived at the foot of the stairs.
The upper door having been left open, the neighbouring flames darted from above a sufficient light to enable Lorenzo’s catching a glance of the fugitive running through the long passages and distant vaults: but when a sudden turn deprived him of this assistance, total darkness succeeded, and he could only trace the object of his enquiry by the faint echo of retiring feet. The pursuers were now compelled to proceed with caution: as well as they could judge, the fugitive also seemed to slacken pace, for they heard the steps follow each other at longer intervals. They at length were bewildered by the labyrinth of passages, and dispersed in various directions. Carried away by his eagerness to clear up this mystery, and to penetrate into which he was impelled by a movement secret and unaccountable, Lorenzo heeded not this circumstance till he found himself in total solitude. The noise of footsteps had ceased. All was silent around, and no clue offered itself to guide him to the flying person. He stopped to reflect on the means most likely to aid his pursuit. He was persuaded that no common cause would have induced the fugitive to seek that dreary place at an hour so unusual: the cry which he had heard, seemed uttered in a voice of terror, and he was convinced that some mystery was attached to this event. After some minutes passed in hesitation he continued to proceed, feeling his way along the walls of the passage. He had already passed some time in this slow progress, when he descried a spark of light glimmering at a distance. Guided by this observation, and having drawn his sword, he bent his steps towards the place, whence the beam seemed to be emitted.
It proceeded from the lamp which flamed before St. Clare’s statue. Before it stood several females, their white garments streaming in the blast, as it howled along the vaulted dungeons. Curious to know what had brought them together in this melancholy spot, Lorenzo drew near with precaution. The strangers seemed earnestly engaged in conversation. They heard not Lorenzo’s steps, and he approached unobserved, till he could hear their voices distinctly.
“I protest,” continued she who was speaking when he arrived, and to whom the rest were listening with great attention; “I protest, that I saw them with my own eyes. I flew down the steps; they pursued me, and I escaped falling into their hands with difficulty. Had it not been for the lamp, I should never have found you.”
“And what could bring them hither?” said another in a trembling voice; “Do you think that they were looking for us?”
“God grant that my fears may be false,” rejoined the first; “but I doubt they are murderers! If they discover us, we are lost! As for me, my fate is certain: my affinity to the prioress will be a sufficient crime to condemn me; and though till now these vaults have afforded me a retreat. …”
Here looking up, her eye fell upon Lorenzo, who had continued to approach softly.
“The murderers!” she cried.
She started away from the statue’s pedestal on which she had been seated, and attempted to escape by flight. Her companions at the same moment uttered a terrified scream, while Lorenzo arrested the fugitive by the arm. Frightened and desperate she sank upon her knees before him.
“Spare me!” she exclaimed; “For Christ’s sake, spare me! I am innocent, indeed, I am!”
While she spoke, her voice was almost choked with fear. The beams of the lamp darting full upon her face which was unveiled, Lorenzo recognized the beautiful Virginia de Villa-Franca. He hastened to raise her from the ground, and besought her to take courage. He promised to protect her from the rioters, assured her that her retreat was still a secret, and that she might depend upon his readiness to defend her to the last drop of his blood. During this conversation, the nuns had thrown themselves into various attitudes: one knelt, and addressed herself to heaven; another hid her face in the lap of her neighbour; some listened motionless with fear to the discourse of the supposed assassin; while others embraced the statue of St. Clare, and implored her protection with frantic cries. On perceiving their mistake, they crowded round Lorenzo and heaped benedictions on him by dozens. He found that, on hearing the threats of the mob, and terrified by the cruelties which from the convent towers they had seen inflicted on the superior, many of the pensioners and nuns had taken refuge in the sepulchre. Among the former was to be reckoned the lovely Virginia. Nearly related to the prioress, she had more reason than the rest to dread the rioters, and now besought Lorenzo earnestly not to abandon her to their rage. Her companions, most of whom were women of noble family, made the same request, which he readily granted. He promised not to
