sation passed, Donatello had once or twice
glanced aside with a watchful air, just as a hound may often be seen to
take sidelong note of some suspicious object, while he gives his more
direct attention to something nearer at, hand. Miriam seemed now first
to become aware of the silence that had followed upon the cheerful talk
and laughter of a few moments before.

Looking round, she perceived that all her company of merry friends had
retired, and Hilda, too, in whose soft and quiet presence she had always
an indescribable feeling of security. All gone; and only herself and
Donatello left hanging over the brow of the ominous precipice.

Not so, however; not entirely alone! In the basement wall of the palace,
shaded from the moon, there was a deep, empty niche, that had probably
once contained a statue; not empty, either; for a figure now came forth
from it and approached Miriam. She must have had cause to dread some
unspeakable evil from this strange persecutor, and to know that this was
the very crisis of her calamity; for as he drew near, such a cold, sick
despair crept over her that it impeded her breath, and benumbed her
natural promptitude of thought. Miriam seemed dreamily to remember
falling on her knees; but, in her whole recollection of that wild
moment, she beheld herself as in a dim show, and could not well
distinguish what was done and suffered; no, not even whether she were
really an actor and sufferer in the scene.

Hilda, meanwhile, had separated herself from the sculptor, and turned
back to rejoin her friend. At a distance, she still heard the mirth of
her late companions, who were going down the cityward descent of the
Capitoline Hill; they had set up a new stave of melody, in which her
own soft voice, as well as the powerful sweetness of Miriam's, was sadly
missed.

The door of the little courtyard had swung upon its hinges, and
partly closed itself. Hilda (whose native gentleness pervaded all her
movements) was quietly opening it, when she was startled, midway, by the
noise of a struggle within, beginning and ending all in one breathless
instant. Along with it, or closely succeeding it, was a loud, fearful
cry, which quivered upward through the air, and sank quivering
downward to the earth. Then, a silence! Poor Hilda had looked into the
court-yard, and saw the whole quick passage of a deed, which took but
that little time to grave itself in the eternal adamant.

CHAPTER XIX

THE FAUN'S