ng with perspiration, led us through
the catacombs. He would wipe the sweat out of his eyes with the sleeve
of his dirty gown, and point to the saints' tombs with the big iron key
he carried. I was pressed close to him by the crowd of peasants behind.
The smell of his greasy body and the powder of dandruff from his long
hair on the shoulders of his gown, the malicious way he looked at me as
though to say, "You and I know that what I'm saying is rot, but it must
be said to them"--it was indescribably disgusting.

We wound through narrow, dungeon-like passages with the cold, damp smell
of an unused cellar. Now and then, through barred windows in the stone
walls, I caught glimpses of tall forms lying in a row, covered with
dingy red and gold cloths.

"Here lie nine brothers who lived for twenty years in this cell. Their
only food was bread and water three times a week. As you see, they had
no room to stand upright in, and were always pressed close to each
other."

The peasants peered through the bars wonderingly.

We passed a body stretched out on a stone ledge.

"This holy saint cured the blind," the priest continued in a sing-song
voice. "He lived in a cell too small to lie down in. For twenty-two
years he never opened his mouth. His body, like the bodies of all the
holy saints in these catacombs, is preserved without a sign of decay
under this cloth." A peasant woman lifted her little boy up to kiss the
edge of the dirty red pall. The pale flame of her candle flickered and
the melted wax dripped on to the cloth. The woman wiped it off quickly,
and glanced in a frightened way at the priest. But he turned away
indifferently and went on.

We saw the bust of a man buried to his arm-pits in the floor. I would
have stumbled over him, but the priest caught my arm.

"This is a holy saint, who, for twenty-five years, stood as you see him,
buried in the earth to above his waist. He never spoke and only ate
bread and water twice a week."

I looked at the peasants. Their faces were scared and white. A few hung
back with a morbid curiosity.

"Come, come," the priest called impatiently. "Keep together. Some get
lost here and never get out again."

I had heard of three pretty peasant girls who had mysteriously
disappeared in the catacombs.

"Ouf!" The priest unlocked an iron door and we came squinting out into
the daylight again. He held the door open and mopped his face as we
filed past him, snuffing our candles. The pi