The steps were abrupt and narrow; but in a few minutes our feet became accustomed to them, and we descended rapidly. After we had done so for some time, we found ourselves in a low chamber of oblong form, in the midst of which an iron stake was fixed into the floor, having chains of ponderous workmanship attached to its centre, and over against it, a narrow chair of the same metal, it also immoveable. I asked Athanasia to repose herself here for a moment; for it was evident that the tumultuous evening had much worn out her strength. But she said, shuddering, “No, not here, Valerius; I never saw this place before, but the aspect of it recals to me fearful stories. Here, wo is me, many a poor wretch has expiated offences against the dignity of the shrine, and the servants of its Demon. My father knows, I doubt not, some humble Christian roof, beneath which we may be safe until the first search be over. Let us breathe at least the open air, and He who has hitherto helped will not desert us.”

“No, my children,” said Aurelius; “let us not linger here. Christian roofs, indeed, are known to me, both humble and lofty; but how to know how far suspicion may already have extended?—or why should we run any needless risk of bringing others into peril, [pg 341]having by God’s grace escaped ourselves, when all hope as to this life had been utterly taken away? Let us quit these foul precincts—let us quit them speedily—but let us not rashly be seen in the busy city. There is a place known to me, (and Athanasia also has visited it heretofore,) where safety, I think, may be expected, and where, if danger do come, it shall find no unnecessary victim. Let us hasten to the Esquiline.”

“Thanks, father!” said Athanasia; “there no one will seek us: there best shall our thanksgivings and our prayers be offered. We will rest by the sepulchre of our friend, and Valerius will go into the city, and procure what things are needful.”

We began the descent of another flight of steps, beyond the dark chamber. This terminated at length in a door, the bolts of which being withdrawn, we found ourselves beneath the sky of night, at the extremity of one of the wooded walks that skirt the southern base of the Palatine—the remains of the Assyrian magnificence which had once connected the Golden House of Nero with the more modest structures of his predecessors. I wrapped Athanasia in my cloak, and walked beside her in my tunic; and Aurelius conducted us by many windings, avoiding as far as was possible the glare of the Suburra, all round about the edge of the city, to the gardens which hang over the wall by the great Esquiline Gate.

“Is it here,” said I, when he paused—“is it in the midst of this splendour that you hope to find a safe obscurity?”

“Have patience,” replied the old man; “you are a stranger:—and yet you speak what I should have heard [pg 342]without surprise from many that have spent all their days in Rome. Few, indeed, ever think of entering a region which is almost as extensive as the city itself, and none, I think, are acquainted with all its labyrinths.”

So saying, the priest led the way into one of the groves. Its trees formed a dense canopy overhead; nor could we pass without difficulty among the close-creeping undergrowth. At length we reached the centre of the wide thicket, and found a small space of soil comparatively bare. The light of moon and star plunged down there among the surrounding blackness of boughs, as into some deep well, and shewed the entrance of a natural grotto, which had, indeed, all the appearance of oblivion and utter desertedness. “Confess,” said he, “that I did not deceive you. But there is no hurry now; let me taste once more the water of this forgotten spring.”

I had not observed a small fountain hard by the mouth of the grotto, which, in former days, had evidently been much cared for, although now almost all its surface was covered with leaves. The marble margin shewed dim with moss; nor had a statue just within the entrance of the grot escaped this desolation. Damp herbage obscured its recumbent limbs, and the Parian stone had lost its brightness. “You can scarcely see where the inscription was,” said Aurelius, “for the letters are filled up or effaced; but I remember when many admired it, and I can still repeat the lines—

‘Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs I keep,

And to the murmur of these waters sleep;

[pg 343]

Ah! spare my slumbers, gently tread the cave,

And drink in silence, or in silence lave.’4

Little did they, who graved this command, conjecture how well it was to be obeyed. But there should be another inscription.—Ay, here it is,” said he, stepping on a long flat piece of marble among the weeds. I was advancing to examine the stone, but the old man stopped me:—“What avails it to spell out the record? Do you remember the story of Asinius? It was within this very cavern that the man was butchered;5 and now you see both he and his monument are alike sinking into forgetfulness. I believe, however, the monument itself must bear the blame in part; for I have heard my father say that he had been told this was a favourite fountain until that slaughter.”

Athanasia meantime had sat down by the grotto, and was laving her forehead with the water of the solitary fountain. Aurelius, too, dipped his hands in the well, and tasted of the water, and then turning to me, he said, with a grave smile, “Valerius, methinks you are religious in your regard for the slumbers of the nymph.” He whispered something into the ear of Athanasia, and received an answer from her in the same tone, ere he proceeded:—“Draw near—fear not that I shall do any thing rashly—we owe all things [pg 344]to your love—we know we do; but speak plainly.—Do you indeed desire to be admitted into the fellowship of the true Faith? Let not the symbol of regeneration be applied hastily. Without doubt, great were my joy might my hands be honoured to shed the blessed water of baptism upon the brow of dear Valerius.”

“Caius,” said Athanasia, “I know God has touched your heart; why should this be delayed any longer? You have shared the perils of the faithful. Partake with them in good as in evil. Hesitate no longer; God will perfect what hath been so begun.”

“Dearest friends!” said I, “if I hesitate, it is only because I doubt if I am yet worthy. Surely I believe that this is the right faith, and that there is no God but He whom you worship.”

“Acceptable is humility in the sight of Heaven,” said the priest; and he rose up from the place where he had been sitting, and began, standing by the margin of the well, to pour out words of thanksgiving and supplication, such as I have never heard equalled by any lips but his. The deep calm voice of the holy man sounded both sweet and awful in the breathless air of midnight. The tall black trees stood all around, like a wall, cutting us off from the world, and from the thoughts of the world; and the moon, steady in the serene sky, seemed to shower down light and beauty upon nothing in all the wide earth, but that little guarded space of our seclusion. I stepped into the cool water of the fountain. The old man stooped over me, and sprinkled the drops upon my forehead, and the appointed words were repeated. Aurelius kissed my brow, as I came forth from the water, and Athanasia also drew slowly [pg 345]near, and then hastily she pressed my forehead with trembling lips.

We sate down together by the lonely well; and we sate in silence, for I could not be without many thoughts partaken by none but myself, at the moment when I had thus, in the face of God and man, abjured the faith of all my fathers, and passed into the communion of the despised and persecuted Few; nor did either the priest or Athanasia essay to disturb my meditations.

There were moments (for I must not conceal from you my weakness) in which I could scarcely help suspecting that I had done something that was wrong. I thought of my far distant mother; and I could not reflect without pain upon the feelings with which I had every reason to suppose that she, kind as she was, and merciful in all things, would have contemplated the scene which had passed. I thought of my dead parent too; and that was yet more serious and awful. The conviction of my own mind, in obedience to which I had acted, relieved me, however, from any feelings of self-reproach.—My father is dead, said I to myself—He died in ignorance, and he has not been judged according to the light, which never shone upon him. But now—Oh, yes! it must be so—the darkness has passed from before his eyes; and, if the spirits of the departed ever visit, in the dim hours of silence, those who were dear to them upon this earth, surely his venerable shade stood by smiling while the forehead of his son was laved with these blessed waters.

Meantime, minutes—hours, perhaps, glided away, while troubled, and solemn, and tender thoughts thus occupied by turns my bosom. The old priest sate by [pg 346]me, his arms folded on his breast, gazing upwards upon the spangled glories of the firmament. Athanasia was on the other side, close by the statue of the Sleeping Naiad. From time to time, she too would fix her eyes for a moment upon the untroubled beauty of the moon; and then, stooping over the brink of the fountain, once and again I saw its calm dark waters rippled beneath her by the dropping of a tear.

“My children,” said, at length, Aurelius, “methinks more sadness is amongst us than might suit the remembrance of what Providence has done for us, since the sun that went down upon fear and sorrow is about to rise upon many fair hopes. I am old; the world lies behind me, save a remnant I know not how brief. It lies all before you, and you have a light whereby to look upon it, which my early day wanted. I trust that soon, very soon, ye shall both be far from this city—I say both, for I know well, go where ye may, ye will go together. As for me, my lot is cast here, and here I will remain. Caius, you must leave us betimes—you must return into the city, and consult with your friends and hers, how best Athanasia may be conveyed safely beyond the bounds of Italy. Cæsar, indeed, rules every where; but at a distance from Rome suspicion is, at least, less watchful; and there is no precept given by which ye are bound to seek unnecessary perils.”

“Aurelius,” said I—“dear father, think not but that I have already been considering all these things anxiously. As soon as I have seen you safely placed within the retreat of which you have spoken, I shall hasten to Licinius, my kinsman, who already, indeed, must be feeling no small anxiety from my absence. I [pg 347]shall speak with him, and with both the Sempronii. My own errand to the capital I value as nothing, and I shall be ready on the instant, if Athanasia herself will consent to partake my voyage.”

“Yes, Caius,” said the father—“this child of God will be your wife, and ye will both serve the Lord many days, amidst the quiet valleys of your far off island.—Nay, daughter, do not weep, for these are not common days, and you must follow without fear the path which God’s providence points out. Before ye go, my children, I myself shall join your hands in the name of our God.”

Athanasia heard his words, and saw me gaze upon his face, but she made no reply, except by the tears which Aurelius rebuked, and a timid, yet grave and serious pressure, with which she, when he had made an end of speaking, returned the fervid pressure of my hand upon hers.

“Children,” said the old man, “there is no need of words when hearts are open—the tears that ye have shed together are the best earnest of the vows that ye shall ere long, I trust, pronounce. Yet, let no rashness attend your steps. The dawn must now be near, and Athanasia and I had better retire into our protecting covert. Valerius will leave us, and return at eventide. Till then, fasting and praying, we shall give thanks for our deliverance, and ask the aid that alone is precious for the time that yet remains.”

I had, fortunately, brought all the way with me the lamp which lighted our steps down the mysterious staircase, from the shrine of Apollo. Some little oil still remained within it, and Aurelius soon struck a light, [pg 348]and, taking it in his hand, began to enter before us the dark cavern, by the mouth of which we had all this while been sitting. You, perhaps, have never heard of those strange excavations, the whole extent of which has probably never been known to any one person, but which appear, indeed, as the priest had said, to be almost co-extensive with the great city beneath which they are placed. For what purpose they were at first dug, is a subject which has long exercised the conjectures of those fond of penetrating into the origin of things, and the customs of antiquity. By some it is supposed, that in such caverns, winding far away into unseen recesses, the first rude inhabitants of Italy, like the Troglodytes of Upper Egypt and Ethiopia, had fixed their miserable abodes. Others assert, that they owe their origin merely to the elder builders of the visible Rome, who, to avoid marring the surface of the earth, were contented to bring their materials of sand, clay, and stone, from these subterraneous labyrinths, which so grew with the progress of diligence, and with the extension of the city itself. Perhaps both conjectures may have some foundation in truth; but be that as it may, there is no question, that, in succeeding times, these catacombs had been widened and extended, to serve as places of burial for the mortal remains of the poor citizens. And now is it to be wondered at, that here, in regions so obscure and dismal, the persecuted adherents of the Faith should have frequently sought not only resting-places for the bodies of their dead, but even shelter for themselves, amidst the terror of those relentless days? Hither, more than once, the aged priest said, he had fled to escape the pursuit of his [pg 349]enemies—here once more he hoped the shield of safety would lie over his peril—here, at last, by whatever death he should die, his brethren had promised to lay his bones in the earth, beside Tisias of Antioch, and many more that, in the bloody times of Nero and Domitian, had already, in the sight of all that heartless city, merited the crown, and the spotless robe, and the palm-branch of martyrdom, by patient endurance of the last insolence of man.

Our father, therefore, held the lamp before us, and we entered those gloomy regions, wherein alone the servants of the Son of God could at that troubled era esteem themselves in safety from the hot pursuit of contemptuous power. We passed along beneath the arches of the rock-hewn roof, and between the endless winding walls, on either side of which appeared many humble inscriptions, recording the virtues of the departed and the regrets of the surviving poor. Of these last, however, as it appeared, all must long since have been gathered to the ashes of those they lamented, for there was no semblance of any new monument among all that we observed, and most of them, to judge from the shape of the letters upon them, must have been set up at least as long ago as the period of Asinius. After traversing many of these subterraneous galleries, we came, at last, to one more low-roofed than the rest, into which Aurelius struck aside, saying, “Here Tisias lies, but no inscription marks the place where a martyr finds repose. Here is the spot; with my own hands I lent feeble help in digging the grave. Athanasia, too, knows it well, for she also did not fear to assist in rendering the last honours to that soldier of Christ.”

[pg 350]

A flat thin stone, without mark or epitaph, indicated the spot.

“Father,” said Athanasia, “let me rest here. I am weary and worn—but here I shall fear no evil. Conduct Caius back to the grotto; it is time he should go.”

Thus leaving her by the funeral-stone, Aurelius and I retraced our steps to the mouth of the catacomb.

“Already,” said he, “the sky is red eastward—walk cautiously through the gardens, and regain with all speed the house of your kinsman. Go, my son; may all blessings attend your steps. Come back at the rising of the moon, and cast a stone into the fountain, and I shall be within hearing. Go, and fear not.”

[pg 351]