. "The lamp that has been
burning these four hundred years! This surely must portend some great
misfortune; and, by my advice, Signore, you will hasten hence, lest the
tower tumble on our heads. A priest once told me that, if the Virgin
withdrew her blessing and the light went out, the old Palazzo del Torte
would sink into the earth, with all that dwell in it. There will be a
terrible crash before morning!"

The stranger made the best of his way from the doomed premises; while
Kenyon--who would willingly have seen the tower crumble down before his
eyes, on condition of Hilda's safety--determined, late as it was, to
attempt ascertaining if she were in her dove-cote.

Passing through the arched entrance,--which, as is often the case with
Roman entrances, was as accessible at midnight as at noon,--he groped
his way to the broad staircase, and, lighting his wax taper, went
glimmering up the multitude of steps that led to Hilda's door. The hour
being so unseasonable, he intended merely to knock, and, as soon as
her voice from within should reassure him, to retire, keeping his
explanations and apologies for a fitter time. Accordingly, reaching the
lofty height where the maiden, as he trusted, lay asleep, with angels
watching over her, though the Virgin seemed to have suspended her care,
he tapped lightly at the door panels,--then knocked more forcibly,--then
thundered an impatient summons. No answer came; Hilda, evidently, was
not there.

After assuring himself that this must be the fact, Kenyon descended the
stairs, but made a pause at every successive stage, and knocked at the
door of its apartment, regardless whose slumbers he might disturb, in
his anxiety to learn where the girl had last been seen. But, at each
closed entrance, there came those hollow echoes, which a chamber, or any
dwelling, great or small, never sends out, in response to human knuckles
or iron hammer, as long as there is life within to keep its heart from
getting dreary.

Once indeed, on the lower landing-place, the sculptor fancied that there
was a momentary stir inside the door, as if somebody were listening at
the threshold. He hoped, at least, that the small iron-barred aperture
would be unclosed, through which Roman housekeepers are wont to take
careful cognizance of applicants for admission, from a traditionary
dread, perhaps, of letting in a robber or assassin. But it remained
shut; neither was the sound repeated; and Kenyon concluded that hi