"Well," said Frank, "my quarrel with Pompeii doesn't end here. For, you see, even if the houses were whole and uninjured, what would they be? Poor affairs enough. Just think how small they are. Rooms ten by twelve. Narrow passage-ways for halls, that'll scarcely allow two people to pass each other. The rooms are closets. The ceilings were all low. And then look at the temples. I expected to find stone walls and marble columns. But what have I found? Nothing but shams—pillars built of bricks, and plastered over to resemble marble. Do you call that the right style of thing? Why, at home we sneer at lath-and-plaster Gothic. Why should we admire lath-and-plaster Greek because it's in Pompeii? Then, again, look at the Forums —miserable little places that'll only hold about fifty people."

"Pooh!" said David; "as if they didn't know what was large enough!"

"I don't doubt that they knew it," said Frank. "But what I say is, that if these were large enough for them, what a poor lot they must have, been!"

"After all," said David, "Pompeii was not a great city. It was only a small city. You expect to find here the magnificence of Rome."

"No, I don't. I merely expect to find something that'll carry out the promise of those pictures that they make of scenes in Pompeii. Why, there isn't anything in the whole town, except, perhaps, this place, that looks large enough for an ordinary person to move about in. Look at the walls—miserable things twenty feet high. Look at the streets—only wide enough for a single cart. Look at the sidewalks—only wide enough for a single man. The only thing in the whole town that comes up to my idea is the Amphitheatre. This is respectable. It corresponds with the pictures, and the descriptions of travellers. But as to all the rest, I have only to remark that they are, first, mean; secondly, small; and thirdly, in outrageously bad taste."

Frank ceased, and looked steadfastly at David.

David looked at Frank, but his feelings were too strong for utterance. His indignation at this desecration of a place that was so hallowed in his eyes could not be expressed. He turned his face away in silent scorn, and fixed his gaze on Vesuvius.

They waited a long time, and when at length they prepared to leave Pompeii, it was late in the day. All the other visitors had left long before, and they were the last in the city. They walked along looking round them till the last, and at length reached the entrance. Michael Angelo went off to get the carriage. They waited a little while to take a last look, and then passed through the gate. Here they found themselves confronted by three officials, the custodians of the place.

One of these addressed them in very fair English.

"Messieurs," said he, "before you leave, I haf to inquire—Deed you take anyting out from Pompeii?"

"Take anything?" said Uncle Moses, in an indignant voice. "What do you mean?"

"A tousand pardons, sare," said the other, politely. "It ees a formaletee. I mean de leetle stones, de pieces of steek, wood, plastair. Ha! De reliques, de souvenirs."

He was rather an unpleasant looking man, with a very sallow face, high cheek-bones, and a heavy goatee on the tip of his chin, which wagged up and down as he talked in quite a wonderful way.

"Stones, sticks, plaster?" said Uncle Moses. "Course not."

The official looked intently at him, and then at the boys. After this he conversed with his companion in Italian. These companions were quite as unprepossessing in their appearance as himself. Then the first speaker turned to the boys.

"You, sare," said he to Frank, in rather an unpleasant tone, "haf you de stones or de bones?"

"Not a stone, not a bone," said Frank, smilingly. "I did take a few at first, but I pitched them away."

"And you, sare?" said he to Bob.

"Don't deal in such articles," said Bob, with a grin—"not in my line—not my style."

"Pardon," said the official, with a sickly smile, "but I must put de usual interrogatoree. You, sare?" and he addressed himself to David.

David turned pale.

He hesitated for a moment.

"Well," said he, "I believe I have got a few little stones, just two or three, you know; little relics, you know."

"Ah! ver good, ver nais," said the official, with the sunshine of perfect content illuminating his sallow features. "And you, sare?" he continued, turning to Clive.

"Well, yes," said Clive, "I've got a few, I believe; but they really don't amount to anything in particular."

"O, no, not at all," said the Italian; "dey don't amount to notin; but look you, de govairement haf made de law dat no pairson will take no stone, nor steek, nor relique, nor bone, nor souvenir, from Pompeii. You mus geef dem all oop."

"Why? They're only two or three," pleaded David, in a heartbroken voice.

"So, dat is eet. Look you. Eet ees de law. O, yais. I cannot help. Everybody will take two or tree. Very well. Ten tousand, twenty tousand, hundred tousand come here every year, and all take away hundred tousand pocket full. Ah, ha! See you? What den? Why, den all Pompeii be carried away. Aha! dat great shame. Too bad, hey? ha? You ondstand. So you sall gif dem all oop into my hand."

David and Clive remonstrated most vehemently, but the official was obdurate. He pleaded the law. He insisted on the full restoration of everything.

So the two lads began to disgorge, with the following result:—

1 piece of brick from the Sidewalk. 1 bit of stone, Street. 1 stucco, Basilica. 1 do. Temple Venus. 1 do. Forum. 1 do. Temple Jupiter. 1 bit of stone, Public Bakery. 1 do. Sentry box. 1 do. Wall. 1 do. Gateway. 1 do. Street Tombs. 1 do. Villa Diomede. 1 do. do. 1 bone, Sepulchre. 1 do. do. 1 package dust, do. 1 do. Villa Sallust. 1 do. do. 1 pebble, Eating House. 1 do. House of Dioscuri. 1 bit of plaster, Pantheon. 1 do. Temple Mercury. 1 do. do. Isis. 1 brick, Tragic Theatre. 1 do. Comic Theatre. 1 stone, Amphitheatre. 1 do. do.

The above is by no means a complete inventory of, the articles produced by Clive and David, but will serve to give an idea of the nature of that heap which was spread upon the table before the stern officials. One by one they were turned out from the well-filled pockets of David and Clive. Slowly and reluctantly, the two boys turned out those precious treasures. Sadly and mournfully they laid them on the table, under the stern, the inflexible, the relentless gaze of the three inexorable custodians, who, to David's mind, seemed the impersonations of Minos, Aeacus, and Rhadamanthus. Yea, all these, and many more,—fragments from houses, bits of mosaic stone, little chips,—all were seized, and all were confiscated. Not a word was spoken. It was a sorrow too strong for words; and Minos, Aeacus, and Rhadamanthus stood, individually and collectively, inflexible and inexorable. The rueful countenances of the two culprits excited the sympathy and pity of their companions; but it seemed a case where no help could avail them. Frank and Bob looked upon the scene with a strong desire to interfere in some way, and Uncle Moses looked quite as distressed as either David or Clive. Suddenly a new actor entered upon the scene.

It was Michael Angelo.

He came in with a quick step, started as he noticed the sadness on the faces of his party, and then threw a rapid glance around. One glance was sufficient to show plainly enough what had happened. He saw the table covered with the stones and bones already described. He saw the heart-broken expression that was stamped upon the faces of David and Clive as they gazed upon their parting treasures. He saw the attitude and the expression of Uncle Moses, and Frank, and Bob, as they watched their friends.

That one glance not only explained all to Michael Angelo, but suggested to him a course of conduct upon which he instantly proceeded to act.

He stepped up to the aide of Rhadamanthus, and accosting him in Italian; he spoke a few words in a low voice. What he said was, of course, unintelligible to the boys. After these few words, Michael Angelo then slipped something into the hand of the inexorable one.

Then he turned to the despairing boys.

"It's all right," said Michael Angelo, cheerily. "I haf explained. You may keep de tings."

David and Clive looked up, and stared at Michael Angelo in wonder, not fully comprehending him.

"It's all right," said Michael Angelo. "Dey onderstand. I haf explained. You put dem back into your pocket. You sall keep de tings. It's all right. Dey are yours now. It's all r-r-r-r-right. All r-r-r-r-right, I say."

David and Clive still hesitated, and looked at Rhadamanthus.

Rhadamanthus gazed benignantly at them, smiled a gracious smile, and waved his hands with the air of a judge dismissing a case.

"All r-r-right," said Rhadamanthus; "he haf explained."

This language was somewhat unintelligible. What there was to be explained they could not imagine. If the law prohibited the carrying off of relics from Pompeii, no amount of "explanation" could give them a claim to their unlawful possessions. But neither David nor Clive was at all inclined to hesitate about the legality of their possessions, or to make any inquiries about the nature of the explanation which had been made by Michael Angelo. It was joy enough for them to know that the difficulty was over, and that the relics were theirs once more.

So the pile of relics went back from that table into the pockets of David and Clive with a rapidity that is inconceivable. Away from their faces passed that heart-broken expression which had been upon them; the shadows passed away from their brows, the sunshine of joy and exultation overspread them, and they looked at Michael Angelo in silent gratitude.

A few minutes more and they were-in the carriage.

Then David asked Michael Angelo how it was that he had changed the stern resolve of the inexorable Rhadamanthus into such easy, gracious, and good-tempered indulgence.

Michael Angelo laughed.

"I gif him," said he, "just one half dollar. Dat was what he wanted all de time. Aftaire dees you know what to do. All r-r-right. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

And Michael Angelo burst into a peal of laughter.

Upon this Uncle Moses began to moralize about the corrupt morals of the Italian race, and went on to speak of tyranny, priestcraft, slavery, aristocracy, monarchy, primogeniture, brigandage, and ten thousand other things.

And the carriage rolled back to Naples.



CHAPTER XX.

The Glories of Naples.—The Museum.—The Curiosities.—How they unroll the charred Manuscripts exhumed from Herculaneum and Pompeii.—On to Rome.—Capua.—The Tomb of Cicero.—Terracina.—The Pontine Marshes.—The Appii Forum.

The party remained in Naples some time longer, and had much to see. There was the Royal Museum, filled with the treasures of antique art, filled also with what was to them far more interesting—the numerous articles exhumed from Herculaneum and Pompeii. Here were jewels, ornaments, pictures, statues, carvings, kitchen utensils, weights, measures, toilet requisites, surgical instruments, arms, armor, tripods, braziers, and a thousand other articles, the accompaniments of that busy life which had been so abruptly stopped. All these articles spoke of something connected with an extinct civilization, and told, too, of human life, with all its hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows. Some spoke of disease and pain, others of festivity and joy; these of peace, those of war; here were the emblems of religion, there the symbols of literature.

Among all these, nothing was more interesting than the manuscript scrolls which had been found in the libraries of the better houses. These looked like anything rather than manuscripts. They had all been burned to a cinder, and looked like sticks of charcoal. But on the first discovery of these they had been carefully preserved, and efforts had been made to unroll them. These efforts at first were baffled; but at last, by patience, and also by skill, a method was found out by which the thing might be done. The manuscripts were formed of Egyptian papyrus—a substance which, in its original condition, is about as fragile as our modern paper; the sheets were rolled around a stick, and were not over eight inches in width, and about sixteen feet in length. The stick, the ornaments, and the cases had perished, but the papyrus remained. Its nature was about the same as the nature of a scroll of paper manuscript would be after passing through the fire. Each thin filament, as it was unrolled, would crumble into dust. Now, this crumbling was arrested by putting over it a coating of tough, gelatinous substance, over which a sheet of muslin was placed, the gelatinous substance acting also upon the charred sheet in such a way as to detach it from the rest of the scroll. In this way it was unrolled slowly and carefully, two inches at a time, and on being unrolled a facsimile copy was at once made. Of course there was no attempt to preserve the manuscripts; they were, too perishable; and after a short exposure, just long enough to admit of a copy being made, they shrank up and crumbled away.

There were other places of attraction in this beautiful city—the Villa Reale, the chosen promenade of the Neapolitans, which stretches along the shore, filled with trees, and shrubbery, and winding paths, and flower-beds, and vases, and statues, and sculptures, and ponds, and fountains, and pavilions. There was the Castle of St. Elmo, with its frowning walls; the Cathedral of San Francisco, with its lofty dome and sweeping colonnades; and very many other churches, together with palaces and monuments.

But at last all this came to an end, and they left Naples far Rome. They had a carriage to themselves, which they had hired for the journey, and the weather was delightful The road was smooth and pleasant, the country was one of the fairest on earth, and as they rolled along they all gave themselves up to the joy of the occasion. They passed through a region every foot of which was classic ground. Along their way they encountered amphitheatres, aqueducts, tombs, and other monuments of the past, some in ruins, others still erect in stately though melancholy grandeur. Capua invited them to tarry—not the ancient Capua, but the modern, which, though several miles distant from the historic city, has yet a history of its own, and its own charms. But among all these scenes and sights which they encountered, the one that impressed them most was Cicero's tomb. It is built on the spot where he was assassinated, of immense stones, joined without cement. In shape it is square, but the interior is circular, and a single column rises to the vaulted roof. Of course whatever contents there may have been have long since been scattered to the winds; no memorial of the great orator and patriotic statesman is visible now; but the name of Cicero threw a charm about the place, and it seemed as though they were drawn nearer to the past. The boys expressed their feelings in various ways, and David, who was most alive to the power of classical associations, delivered, verbatim, about one half of the first oration of Cicero against Catiline. He would have delivered the whole of it, and more also, beyond a doubt, had not Frank put a sudden stop to his flow of eloquence by pressing his hand against David's mouth, and threatening to gag him if he didn't "stop it."

On the afternoon of the second day they arrived at Terracina. This town is situated on the sea-shore, with the blue Mediterranean in front, stretching far away to the horizon. Far out into the sea runs the promontory of Circaeum,—familiar to the boys from their studies in Homer and Virgil,—while over the water the white sails of swift-moving vessels passed to and fro. The waves broke on the strand, fishing-boats were drawn up on the beach, and there were wonderful briskness and animation in the scene.

Terracina, like all other towns in this country, has remains of antiquity to show. Its Cathedral is built from the material of a heathen temple, probably that of Apollo, which was once a magnificent edifice, but is now in ruins. But it was the modern beauty of the town, rather than this or any, other of its antiquities, that most attracted the boys,—the sea-beach, where the waters of the Mediterranean rippled and plashed over the pebbles; the groves and vineyards, that extended all around; the wooded hills; the orange trees and the palm, the thorny cactus and the aloe; and above all, the deep, azure sky, and the clear, transparent atmosphere. To the intoxication of all this surrounding beauty they gave themselves up, and wandered, and scrambled, and raced, and chased one another about the slumberous town.

They slept soundly that night, lolled to rest by the long roll of the Mediterranean waters, as they dashed upon the beach, and on the following morning resumed their journey. The road now passed through the Pontine Marshes, and they all entered upon this part of their journey with strong feelings of curiosity.

The district which goes by the name of the Pontine Marshes is one of the most famous places in Europe. It is about forty-five miles long, and varies in breadth from four to eleven miles. The origin of these marshes is not known. In the early ages of the republic of Rome numerous cities are mentioned as existing here. But all these gradually became depopulated; and now not a vestige remains of any one of them. From a very remote period numerous efforts were put forth to reclaim these lands. When the famous Appian Way was constructed through, them, they were partially drained. Afterwards a canal was formed, which ran by the road-side; and of this canal Horace speaks in the well-known account of his journey to Brundusium. Julius Caesar intended, among other great works, to enter upon the task of reclaiming them; but his death prevented it. Under various successive emperors, the attempt was made, and continued, until at last, in the reign of Trajan, nearly all the district was recovered. Afterwards it fell to ruin, and the waters flowed in once more. Then they remained neglected for ages, down to modern times. Various popes attempted to restore them, but without success, until at last Pope Pius VI. achieved the accomplishment of the mighty task in the year 1788, ever since which time the district has been under cultivation.

The road was a magnificent one, having been built on the foundations of the ancient Appian Way. It was lined on each side with trees, and was broad and well paved. It is considered one of the finest in Europe. Along this they rolled, the blue sky above them, on the right hand the mountains, on the left the sea. The air was damp and chill; but at first they did not feel it particularly, though Uncle Moses complained of "rheumatics," and took precautionary measures against his insidious enemy by wrapping himself up warmly. As they went on they saw crowds of peasants coming to work in the fields. These peasants lived in the hill country on the right, and had to walk a great distance to get to their place of labor,—for to live on the marshes was impossible. Men, women, and even children were there; and their pale, sickly faces and haggard looks showed how deadly were the effects of the noxious exhalations from this marshy soil.

At about midday they reached an inn, which stood about half way over the marshes, by the road-side. David speculated much as to whether this place might or might not be the Forum Appii mentioned in the book of Acts as a stopping-place of St. Paul on his way to Rome; but the others were too hungry to take any interest whatever in the question. They remained here nearly two hours, got something to eat, and then resumed their journey.



CHAPTER XXI.

The Pontine Marshes.—A Change comes over the Party.—The foul Exhalations.—The Sleep of Death.—Dreadful Accident.—Despair of Frank.—A Break-down.—Ingenuity of the Driver.—Resumption of the Journey.

For the first half of the day the boys had been in great spirits. Laughter, noisy conversation, jests, chaff, and uproarious songs had all been intermingled, and the carriage was a miniature Bedlam. But after their stoppage at the wayside inn a change took place, and on resuming their journey, they seemed like a very different company. The air of the marshes now began to act upon them. They felt it to be raw, and chill, and unpleasant. A general feeling of discomfort and a general sensation of gloom pervaded all of them. Bob held out most bravely, and strove to regain the jollity which they had felt before. For a long time his fun and nonsense provoked a laugh; but at length his fun grew fainter, and his nonsense more stupid; and the laughter grew less hearty and more forced, until at length the fun, and the nonsense, and the laughter ceased altogether.

Frank felt upon himself the responsibility of the rest to an unusual degree. He was only a few weeks older than David, but he was far stronger and more mature in many respects. David was a hard student, and perhaps a bit of a book-worm, and had a larger share of the knowledge that may be gained from books; but Frank had seen more of the world, and in all that relates to the practical affairs of common life he was immeasurably superior to David. For this reason Frank often assumed, and very naturally too, the guardianship of the party; and so appropriate was this to him, that the rest tacitly allowed it. As for Uncle Moses, none of them ever regarded him as their protector, but rather as an innocent and simple-hearted being, who himself required protection from them.

Frank, therefore, on this occasion, kept warning the whole party, above all things, not to let themselves go to sleep. He had heard that the air of the Pontine Marshes had a peculiar tendency to send one to sleep; and if one should yield to this, the consequences might be fatal. Fever, he, said, would be sure to follow sleep, that might be indulged in under such circumstances. The anxiety which was created in his own mind by his sense of responsibility was of itself sufficient to keep him awake, and left him to devote all his energies to the task of trying to keep the others awake also, and thus save them from the impending danger.

At first they, all laughed at him; but after a time, as each one felt the drowsiness coming over him, they ceased to laugh. Then they tried to sing. They kept up this for some time. They exhausted all their stock of school songs, nigger songs, patriotic songs, songs sentimental and moral, and finally tried even hymns. But the singing was not a very striking success; there was a lack of spirit in it; and under this depressing sense of languor, the voice of music at last died out.

Singularly enough, the one who felt this drowsiness most strongly was Bob. Frank had not thought of him as being at all likely to fall asleep; but whether it was that his mobile temperament made him more liable to extremes of excitement and dullness, or whether the reaction from his former joviality and noisiness had been greater than that of the rest, certain it is that Bob it was who first showed signs of sleep. His eyes closed, his head nodded, and lifting it again with a start, he blinked around.

"Come, Bob," said Frank, "this won't do. You don't mean to say that you're sleepy."

Bob said nothing. He rubbed his eyes, and yawned.

"Bob," said Frank, "take care of yourself."

"O, I'm all right," said Bob, with a drawl; "never fear about me. I'm wide awake."

Scarce had he finished this when his eyes closed again, and his head fell forward.

Frank shook him, and Bob raised himself up with an effort at dignified surprise which was, however, a failure.

"You needn't shake a fellow," he said in a husky, sleepy voice.

"But I will shake you," cried Frank.

"Le'—me—'lone," said Bob, in a half whisper, nodding again.

"Here," cried Frank; "this'll never do. Bob! Bob! wake up! Bob! Bo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-b! Wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-ake u-u-u-u-up!"

But Bob wouldn't wake up. On the contrary, he bobbed his head in a foolish and imbecile way towards Frank, as though seeking unconsciously to find a place on which to rest it. But Frank wouldn't allow anything of the sort He made Bob sit erect, and held him in this way for some time, bawling, yelling, and occasionally shaking him. David and Clive were a little roused by this, and surveyed it with sleepy eyes. Uncle Moses, however, was as wide awake as ever—he had his usual anxiety about the well-being of the boys, and this made sleep out of the question. He now joined his entreaties to those of Frank; and the two, uniting their shouts, succeeded in making considerable uproar.

Still Bob would not wake.

"I'll make him get out and walk," said Frank. "This'll never do. If he sleeps here, he may never wake again."

Saying this, Frank turned to open the carriage door to call to the driver. As he did so, he loosed his hold of Bob, who, being no longer stayed tip on that side, fell over on Frank's lap with his face downward.

Upon this, Frank turned back, and determined to lift Bob up again.

Shaking him as hard as he could, he yelled in his ears and shouted to him to get up.

Now Bob was asleep, yet in his sleep he had a kind of under consciousness of what was going on. He was stupidly conscious that they were trying to raise him up to an uncomfortable sitting posture—a bolt-upright position. This he was sleepily unwilling to submit to. There wasn't any particular strength in his hands, and his drowsy faculties didn't extend farther down than his head. He felt himself lying on something, and to prevent them from raising him from it, he seized it in his teeth.

"Bo-o-o-ob! Bo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-b!" yelled Frank. "W-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ake u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-p!"

But Bob wouldn't.

He only held on the tighter with his teeth.

Upon this, Frank seized him with all his strength, and gave Bob a sudden jerk upward, when—

C-r-r-r-r-i-k-k-k-k!—

A sharp, ripping sound was heard, and as Bob's head was pulled up, a long, narrow piece of cloth was exhibited, hanging down from his mouth; and held in his teeth.

Frank looked at it in dismay, and then looked down.

He gave a cry of vexation.

Bob had seized Frank's trousers in his teeth, and as he was pulled up, he held on tight. Consequently the cloth gave way, and there was poor Frank, reduced to rags and tatters, and utterly unpresentable in any decent society.

He gave up Bob in despair, and began to investigate the extent of the ruin that had been wrought in his trousers. It was a bad rent, an irretrievable one, in fact; and all that he could do was to tie his handkerchief around his leg.

Bob now slept heavily, held up by Uncle Moses.

The other boys grew drowsier and drowsier. Frank was just deciding to get out of the carriage and make them all walk for a time, when a sudden event occurred which brought a solution to the problem.

It was a sudden crash.

Down sank the carriage under them, and away it went, toppling over on one side. A cry of terror escaped all of them. Every one started up, and each one grasped neighbor.

There was something in this sudden shock so dreadful and so startling, that it broke through even the drowsiness and heavy stupor of Bob, and penetrated to his slumbering faculties, and in an instant roused them all. With a wild yell he flung his arms round Uncle Moses. Uncle Moses, fell backward, and all the others were flung upon him. They all lay thus heaped upon the side of the coach, a straggling mass of humanity.

Frank was the first to come to himself, and regain his presence of mind.

"All right," said he, in a cheerful voice. "We haven't gone over quite. The horses have stopped. All right."

A groan came from below the pile of humanity.

"Get off, get off!" exclaimed Bob's voice. "You're smothering Uncle Moses." Frank, who was uppermost, disengaged himself, and helped off the others; and finally Bob scrambled away, giving every indication by this time that he was at last perfectly wide awake.

This restored Uncle Moses. He was able to take a long breath.

By this time Frank had torn open the carriage door, and jumped down. The others followed.

He saw the driver holding the horses. The carriage was tilted over. One of the hind wheels lay underneath, a shattered wreck.

Now all was bustle and confusion.

The driver proceeded to put into execution a plan by which they could go forward, at least far enough to traverse the marshes. The boys all helped, and their efforts drove away the last vestige of drowsiness.

The plan consisted in taking out the tongue of the wagon, binding it upon the fore axle, and letting its other end drag on the ground. Now, as the tongue sloped down, the hind axle rested upon it, and thus the trailing wood served to keep the coach erect, and to act as a runner, which supplied very well the place of the lost wheel. The horses were then hitched on by the traces, without any tongue, and in this way they pulled along the broken carriage.



CHAPTER XXII.

The March ended.—A lonely Inn.—Evil Faces.—Beetling Brows.—Sinister Glances.—Suspicions of the Party.—They put their Head together.—Conferences of the Party.—A threatening Prospect.—Barricades.—In Time of Peace prepare for War.—The Garrison arm themselves.

After completing their arrangements they resumed their journey; but this time they all went on foot, with the exception of Uncle Moses. They went on foot for two reasons: first, because it was impossible for the horses to pull them all when one of the wheels was gone, since it was as much as they could do to maintain a walking pace even with the empty carriage; and the other reason was, that by walking they would be better able to fight off the drowsiness which had menaced them. In truth, as far as drowsiness is concerned, there did not now seem to be any particular danger; for the shock of the break-down had been sufficient to rouse even Bob, and the effects of that shock still remained. Uncle Moses, however, on account of his years, his infirmities, and his tendency to "rheumatics," together with his freedom from drowsiness, was installed in the carriage, with all due honors, as its sole occupant. Walking on thus, they did not regret, in the slightest degree, the hardships of their lot, but rather exulted in them, since they had been the means of rousing them out of their almost unconquerable tendency to sleep. Frank felt the highest possible relief, since he was now freed from the responsibility that had of late been so heavy. In Bob, however, there was the exhibition of the greatest liveliness. Bob, mercurial, volatile, nonsensical, mobile, was ever running to extremes; and as he was the first to fall asleep, so now, when he had awaked, he was the most wide awake of all. He sang, he shouted, he laughed, he danced, he ran; he seemed, in fact, overflowing with animal spirits.

Fortunately they were not very far from the end of the marshes when the wheel broke, and in less than two hours they had traversed the remainder. The driver could speak a little English, and informed them that they could not reach the destination which he had proposed; but he hoped before dark to get as far as an inn, where they could obtain food and lodging. He informed them that it was not a very good inn; but under the circumstances it was the best that they could hope for. To the boys, however, it made very little difference what sort of an inn they came to. As long as they could get something to eat, and any kind of a bed to lie on, they were content; and so they told the driver.

Leaving the marshes, the road began to ascend; and after about a half hour's farther tramp, they came, to a place which the driver informed them was the inn.

It was by no means an inviting place. It was an old stone edifice, two stories high, which had once been covered with, stucco; but the stucco had fallen off in most places, disclosing the rough stones underneath, and giving it an air of dilapidation and squalor. The front was by the road-side. A door opened in the middle, on each side of which was a small, dismal window. In the second story were two other small, dismal windows. At the end they law a window on each story, and a third in the attic. These were all small and dismal. Some of them had sashes and glass; others had sashes without glass; while others had no sashes at all.

A group of men were outside the house, all of whom stared hard at the carriage as it drew near. There was something in the aspect of these men which was indescribably repulsive to the boys: their dirty, swarthy faces, covered with shaggy, jet-black beards; their bushy eyebrows, from beneath which their black eyes glowed like balls of fire; their hats slouched down over their brows; their lounging attitudes, and their furtive glances; all these combined to give them an evil aspect—a wicked, sinister, suspicious appearance, by which all the boys were equally impressed. They said nothing, however; and much as they disliked the look of the place and its surroundings, they saw that there was no help for it, and so they made up their minds to pass the night here as well as they could.

Leaving the carriage, they waited a few moments to ask the driver about the prospects for the next day. The driver had everything arranged. Velletre was only five miles away, and he was going to send there for another carriage, or go himself. They would all be able to leave early on the following day.

This reassured them somewhat, and though they all would have been willing to walk to Velletre, rather than pass the night here, yet Uncle Moses would not be able to do it, and so they had to make up their minds to stay.

On entering the house, they found the interior quite in keeping with the exterior. The hall was narrow, and on either side were two dirty rooms, in which were some frowsy women. One room seemed to be a kitchen, and the other a sitting-room. A rickety stairway led up to the second story. Here they came to a room, which, they were informed, was to be theirs. The door was fragile, and without any fastening. The room was a large one, containing a table and three beds, with one small wash-stand. Two windows looked out in front, and at either end was one. At the south end the window had no sash at all, but was open to the air.

The aspect of the room was certainly rather cheerless, but there was nothing to be done. So they sat down, and waited as patiently as they could for dinner. Before it came, the sun set, and a feeble lamp was brought in, which flickered in the draughts of air, and scarcely lighted the room at all.

The dinner was but a meagre repast. There was some very thin soup, then a stew, then macaroni. There were also bread and sour wine. However, the boys did not complain. They had footed it so far, and had worked so hard, that they were all as hungry as hunters; and so the dinner gave as great satisfaction as if it had been far better. While they were eating, an evil-faced, low-browed villain waited on the table; and as he placed down each dish in succession, he looked round upon the company with a scowl that would have taken away the appetites of any guests less hungry than these. But these were too near starvation to be affected by mere scowls, and so they ate on, reserving their remarks for a future occasion.

So the dinner passed.

And after the dinner was over, and the dishes were removed, and they found themselves alone, they all looked round stealthily, and they all put their heads together, and then,—

"I don't like this," said Frank. do. said Clive. do. said David. do. said Bob.

"I don't feel altogether comfortable here," said Uncle Moses.

"Did you notice that scowl?" said Bob. do. said Clive. do. said David. do. said Frank.

"He's the ugliest creetur I ever see," said Uncle Moses. "I've been expectin somethin o' this sort."

The boys looked all around, for fear of being observed. Frank got up and closed the rickety door. Then he resumed his seat.

Then they all put their heads together again.

"This is a bad place," said Frank. do. said Clive. do. said David. do. said Bob.

"It's the onwholesomedest lookin place I ever see," said Uncle Moses.

"I distrust them all," said Clive. do. said. Frank, do. said David. do. said Bob.

"I don't like the looks of that ere driver," said Uncle Hoses. "I b'leve he contrived that there break-down a purpose, so as to bring us to this here den."

Uncle Moses' remark sank deep into the minds of all. Who was the driver, after all? That break-down was certainly suspicious. It might have been all pre-arranged. It looked suspicions. Then the men below. There were so many of them!

"There are a dozen of them," said Bob. do. said Frank. do. said David. do. said Clive.

"Thar's too big a gatherin here altogether," said Uncle Moses, "an it's my idee that they've come for no good. Didn't you notice how they stared at us with them wicked-looking eyes o' theirs?"

"I wish we'd gone on," said David. do. said Bob. do. said Clive. do. said Frank.

"Yes, boys, that's what we'd ort to hev done," said Uncle Moses. "Why didn't some on ye think of it?"

"We did; but we thought you'd be too tired," said Frank.

"Tired? tired?" exclaimed Uncle Moses. "Tired? What! me tired! me!" And he paused, overcome with amazement. "Why, boys, ye must all be ravin distracted! Me tired! Why, I'm as fresh as a cricket; an though rayther oldish, yet I've got more clear muscle, narve, and sinnoo, than all on ye put together."

At this little outburst' the boys said nothing, but regretted that they had not, at least, proposed going on.

"We're in a fix," said Clive. do. said Bob. do. said Frank. do. said David.

"We're in a tight place, sure," said Uncle Moses.

"There's no help near," said Frank. do. said David. do. said Bob. do. said Clive.

"It's the lonesomest place I ever see," said Uncle Moses.

"It's too dark to leave now," said David. do. said Clive. do. said Bob. do. said Frank.

"Yes, and they'd all be arter us afore we'd taken twelve steps," said Uncle Moses.

"They're the worst sort of brigands," said Bob. do. said Frank. do. said David. do. said Clive.

"Yes, reg'lar bloodthirsty miscreants," said Uncle Moses.

"The door has no lock," said Frank. do. said David. do. said Bob. do. said Clive.

"O, yes, it's a reg'lar trap, an we're in for it, sure," said Uncle Moses. "I only hope we'll get out of it."

"That window's open, too," said David, do. said Frank. do. said Clive. do. said Bob.

"Yes, an thar ain't even a sash in it," said Uncle Moses; "no, nor even a board to put agin it!"

"They'll come to-night," said Clive. do. said Frank. do. said Bob. do. said David.

"No doubt in that thar," said Uncle Moses, in lugubrious tones; "an we've got to prepar ourselves."

"What shall we do?" said Frank. do. said Bob. do. said Clive. do. said David.

"The pint now is," said Uncle Moses,—"the pint now is, what air we to do under the succumstances? That's what it is."

At this Frank rose and opened the rickety door.

He looked out.

He closed it again.

Then he went to each of the windows in succession.

He looked out of each.

Then he resumed his seat.

"Wal?" asked Uncle Moses, in an inquiring tone.

"There's no one to be seen," said Frank; "but I thought I heard voices, or rather whispers, just under the end window."

There was a solemn silence now, and they all sat looking at one another with very earnest faces.

"It's a solemn time, boys," said Uncle Moses, "a deeply solemn time."

To this the boys made no reply, but by their silence signified their assent to Uncle Moses' remark.

At length, after a silence of some time, Frank spoke.

"I think we can manage something," said he, "to keep them out for the night. My idea is, to put the largest bedstead against the door. It opens inside; if the bedstead is against it, it can't be opened."

"But the windows," said Clive.

"O, we needn't bother about the windows, they're too high up," said Frank, confidently.

And now they all set themselves fairly to work making preparations for the night, which preparations consisted in making a barricade which should offer resistance to the assaults of the bloody-minded, murderous, beetle-browed, scowling, and diabolical brigands below, Frank's suggestion about the bed was acted upon first. One of the bedsteads was large, ponderous, old-fashioned, and seemed capable, if placed against a doorway, of withstanding anything less than a cannon ball. This they all seized, and lifting it bodily from the ground, they placed it hard and fast against the door. The result was gratifying in the highest degree to all of them.

They now proceeded to inspect the room, to search out any weak spots, so as to guard against invasion. As to the windows, they thought that their height from the ground was of itself sufficient to remove all danger in that quarter.

But in their search around the room they noticed one very alarming thing. At the south corner there was a step-ladder, which led up into the attic, thus affording an easy entrance to any one who might be above. Frank rushed up to the step-ladder and shook it. To his great relief, it was loose, and not secured by any fixtures. They all took this in their hands, and though it was very heavy, yet they succeeded in taking it down from its place without making any noise. They then laid it upon the floor, immediately underneath the opening into the attic. They would have felt, perhaps, a trifle more secure if they had been able to close up the dark opening above; but the removal of the step-ladder seemed sufficient, and in so doing they felt that they had cut off all means of approach from any possible enemy in that quarter.

Frank drew a long breath of relief as he looked around. He felt that nothing more could be done. All the others looked around with equal complacency, and to the apprehensions which they had been entertaining there now succeeded a delicious sense of security.

"We're safe at last," said Clive. do. said Bob. do. said David. do. said Frank.

"Yes, boys," said Uncle Moses, "we're jest as safe now as if we were to hum. We can defy a hull army of them bloody-minded miscreants, fight them off all right, and by mornin there'll be lots of wagons passin by, an we can git help. But before we go, let's see what weepins we can skear up in case o' need. It's allus best to have things handy."

"Well," said Frank, "I'm sorry to say I've got nothing but a knife;" and saying this, he displayed an ordinary jackknife, not particularly large, and not particularly sharp. "It isn't much," said he, as he opened it, and flourished it in the air, "but it's something."

"Well," said Clive, "I haven't got even a knife; but I've heard that there's nothing equal to a chair, if you want to disconcert a burglar; and so I'll take this, and knock down the first brigand that shows his nose;" and as he said this, he lifted a chair from the floor, and swung it in the air.

"I rely on the barricades," said David, "and don't see the necessity of any arms; for I don't see how we're going to be attacked. If we are, I suppose I can use my knife, like Frank."

"Well," said Bob, "I've given my knife away, and I'll have to take a chair."

"Wal," said Uncle Moses, "I've got a razor, an it's pooty ugly weepin in the hands of a savage man—a desprit ugly weepin."

"And now let's go to bed," said David, do. said Bob. do. said Clive. do. said Frank.

"Yes, boys, that's about the best thing we can do," said Uncle Moses, decisively.



CHAPTER XXIII.

The sleepless Watch.—The mysterious Steps.—The low Whispers.—They come! They come!—The Garrison roused.—To Arms! To Arms!—The beleaguered Party.—At Bay.—The decisive Moment.—The Scaling Ladders.—Onset of the Brigands.

So they all went to Bed.

So great was the confidence which they all felt in their preparations, precautions, and barricades, that not the slightest thought of danger remained in the mind of any one of them to create alarm, with the single exception of Bob.

For some reason or other Bob was more excitable at this time than the others. It may have been that this was his nature, or it may have been that his nerves were more sensitive since his tremendous adventures during the night of horror near Paestum; but whatever was the cause, certain it is, that on this occasion he remained wide awake, and incapable of sleep, while all the others were slumbering the sleep of the innocent.

He and Frank had the same bed, and it was the bed which had been placed against the door. It had been placed in such a way that the head of the bed was against the door. On the north side of the room, and on the left of this bed, was another, in which Uncle Moses slept; while on the south side, or the right, was the bed which was occupied by David and Clive. In this way they had disposed of themselves.

Bob was very wakeful. The beds were father unprepossessing, and consequently they had all retired without altogether undressing themselves; but in spite of this comparative discomfort they soon fell asleep. Bob alone remained awake.

He tried all he could to overcome his wakefulness. He resorted to all the means for producing sleep that he had ever heard of or read of. He tried counting, and went on counting and counting tens, and hundreds, and thousands. He counted fast, and he counted slow. In vain. Counting was useless, and when he had reached as high as four thousand seven hundred and thirty-seven, he gave it up in disgust.

Then he tried another infallible recipe for sleep He imagined, or tried to imagine, endless lines of rolling waves. This also was useless.

Then he tried another. He endeavored to imagine clouds of smoke rolling before him. This was as useless as the others.

Then he tested ever so many other methods, as follows:—

Waving grain. Marching soldiers. Funerals. A shore covered with sea-weed. An illimitable forest. A ditto prairie. The vault of heaven. The wide, shoreless ocean. A cataract. Fireworks. The stars. A burning forest. Looking at his nose. Wishing himself asleep. Rubbing his forehead. Lying on his back, do. do. right side. do. do. left side. do. do. face.

And about seventy-nine other methods, which need not be mentioned, for the simple reason that they were all equally useless.

At last he gave up in despair, and rising up he sat on the side of the bed, with his feet dangling down, and looked around.

The moon had risen, and was shining into the room. By its light he could see the outline of the beds. Around him there ascended a choral harmony composed of snores of every degree, reaching from the mild, mellow intonation of Clive, down to the deep, hoarse, sepulchral drone of Uncle Moses. In spite of his vexation about his wakefulness, a smile passed over Bob's face, as he listened to those astonishing voices of the night.

Suddenly a sound caught his ears, which at once attracted his attention, and turned all his thoughts in another direction.

It was the sound of footsteps immediately in front of the house, and apparently at the doorway. How much time had passed he did not know; but he felt sure that it must be at least midnight. He now perceived that there were some in the house who had not gone to bed. The footsteps were shuffling and irregular, as though some people were trying to walk without making a noise. The sound attracted Bob, and greatly excited him.

In addition to the footsteps there were other sounds. There were the low murmurs of voices in a subdued tone, and he judged that there must be at least a half a dozen who were thus talking. To this noise Bob sat listening for some time. It remained in the same place, and of course he could make nothing out of it; but it served to reawaken all the fears of brigands which had been aroused before they went to bed.

At length he heard a movement from below. The movement was along the ball. It was a shuffling movement, as of men walking with the endeavor not to make a noise.

Bob listened.

His excitement increased.

At last he heard the sounds more plainly.

They were evidently at the foot of the stairway.

Bob listened in increasing excitement.

Then there came a creaking sound. It was from the stairway. They were ascending it.

He thought of waking Frank, but decided to wait.

The sounds draw nearer. There must have been six or seven men upon the stairway, and they were walking up. What for?

He had no doubt what it was for, and he waited, knowing that they were coming to this room in which he was.

They tried to walk softly. There were low whispers once or twice, which ceased as they drew nearer.

Nearer and nearer!

At last Bob knew that they were outside of the door, and as he sat on the bed, he knew that there could not be more than a yard of distance Between himself and those bloody-minded, beetle-browed, ruthless, demoniac, and fiendish brigands.

His blood ran cold in his veins at the very thought.

He did not dare to move. He sat rigid, with every sense on the alert, his eyes fixed on the door, listening.

Then came a slight creaking sound—the sound of a pressure against the door, which yielded slightly, but was prevented by the heavy bed from being opened at all. It was an unmistakable sound. They were trying to open the door. They were also trying to do it as noiselessly as possible. Evidently they thought that their victims were all asleep, and they wished to come in noiselessly, so as to accomplish their fearful errand.

For a moment it seemed to Bob as though the bed was being pushed back. The thought gave him anguish inexpressible, but he soon found that it was not so. Then he expected a savage push at the door from the baffled brigands. He thought that they would drop all attempts at secrecy, and begin an open attack.

But they did not do so.

There were whispers outside the door. Evidently they were deliberating. They were unwilling, as yet, to resort to noisy violence. They wished to effect their full purpose in secret and in silence. Such were Bob's thoughts, which thoughts were strengthened as he heard them slowly move away, and descend the stairs, with the same carefulness, and the same shuffling sound, with which they had ascended.

"They are going to try the windows," thought Bob.

And now as this thought came to him, he could restrain himself no longer. It was no time for sleep. He determined to rouse the others.

He laid his hand on Frank's forehead, and shook his bead. Then, bending down dose to him, he hissed in his ear,—

"Wake! wake! Brigands! Don't speak! don't speak! silence!"

Frank was a light sleeper, and a quick-witted lad, who always retained his presence of mind. At Bob's cry he became wide awake, and without a single word sat up in bed and listened. All was still.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Bob told Him all in a few words.

Upon this Frank got up, stole noiselessly to the window on tiptoe, and listened. Bob followed. As they stood close to the window, they heard the sound of murmuring voices immediately beneath. Several of the panes of glass were out of this window, so that the voices were perfectly audible; though of course their ignorance of the language prevented them from understanding what was said.

As they listened, there arose a movement among them. The voices grew louder. The men were evidently walking out of the house. The listeners heard the sound of their footsteps on the ground as they walked away, and at a little distance off they noticed that the voices became more free and unrestrained.

"They'll be back again," said Frank.

"Let's wake the others," said Bob.

Upon this suggestion they both proceeded at once to act, waking them carefully, and cautioning them against making any noise. The cautions against noise were so earnest, that not a word was spoken above a whisper; but Clive and David, and finally Uncle Moses, stepped out upon the floor, and the whole party proceeded to put their heads together.

"I've got a chair," said Clive.

"I've got a knife," said Frank.

"I've got a chair," said Bob.

"I've got a knife," said David.

"An I've got my razor, which I shoved under my pillow," said Uncle Moses; "an so let em come on. But where are they now?"

"H-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-h!" Said Frank.

All were silent, and listened. There came out from without the sound of footsteps approaching the house, and of low voices.

"They're coming back again," said Bob.

The rest listened.

Frank stole to the window and looked cautiously out.

By the moonlight he saw plainly the figures of four men. They were coming from the road to the house, and they were carrying a ladder. The ladder was very long. The sight sent a shudder through him. He had thought of the windows as being out of the reach of danger; the idea of a ladder had never entered his head at all. Yet he now saw that this-was one of the most simple and natural plans which could be adopted by the brigands.

He came back and told the others. All felt the same dismay which Frank had felt. None of them said a word, but they all stole up to the window, and looking out they saw for themselves.

The brigands approached the house, carrying the ladder; and on reaching it, they put their load on the ground, and rested for a short time. As they did so, the boys noticed that they all looked up at the upper windows of the house.

Then they saw the brigands gathering close together, and the murmur of their conversation came up to their ears.

It was a thrilling sight. The boys stood in dread suspense. No one said a word, not even a whisper.

The conversation among the brigands was followed by a movement on their part which brought things nearer to a climax. They raised the ladder once more, and moving it a little farther away, they proceeded to put it up against the house. The ladder was put up at the south end of the house, and as it was being carried there for the purpose of erection, the boys and Uncle Moses all stole over to that south window, where, standing a little distance back, so as to be out of observation, they looked out. Each one grasped his weapon of defence.

Clive his chair.

Frank his knife.

Bob his chair.

David his knife.

Uncle Moses his razor.

"Be ready, boys," said Uncle Moses, in a firm voice, as he grasped his razor. "The hour air come, and the decisive moment air at hand!"

He said this in a whisper, and the boys made no reply whatever.

The brigands meanwhile elevated the ladder, and the upper end struck the building. The dull thud of that stroke sent a thrill to the hearts of those listeners in the room. As they saw one of the brigands seize the ladder in order to mount, they all involuntarily shrank back one step.

"It isn't this window, at any rate," said Frank, in a whisper.

This remark encouraged them for a moment. No, it was not their window, but the attic window. They watched in silence now, and saw the four brigands go up.

Overhead they heard the sound that announced them as they stepped in through the window.

One brigand!

Two brigands!!

Three brigands!!!

Four brigands!!!!

And now the momentary relief which they had experienced at seeing that the attack was not made upon their window was succeeded by the darkest apprehensions, as they heard the entrance of those four brigands, and knew that these desperate men were just above them. They were there overhead. The hatchway was open. Through that opening they could drop down one by one.

The same thought came to all of them, and with one common impulse they moved softly to where the step-ladder lay on the floor. Frank made this movement first; the others followed.

They stood ranged along the step-ladder.

First, Frank, with his knife.

Second, Bob, with his chair.

Third, Clive, with his chair.

Fourth, David, with his knife.

Fifth, Uncle Moses, with his razor.

Every one held his weapon in a grasp which the excitement of the moment had rendered convulsive. Every eye was fixed upon the hatchway above, which lay concealed in the gloom. Overhead they heard, whispering, but no movement whatever.

"Let's jump out of the windows and run," whispered Bob, hurriedly.

"No," said Frank, "they are watching below—no use."

But further remarks were prevented by the sudden glimmer of a light above. It was a light in the attic, not very bright, yet sufficiently so to show the opening through which their enemies were about to come.

The brigands had lighted a lamp!

The excitement grew stronger.

Voices arose, low and hushed.

Then footsteps!

The light above the opening grew brighter!

It was an awful moment!

The suspense was terrible!

Yet in the midst of that suspense they had no thought of surrender. In fact, they did not think that surrender would be possible. These bloody-minded miscreants would show no quarter; and the besieged party felt the task imposed upon them of selling their lives as dearly as possible. And so it was, that as the brigands came nearer to the opening,—

Frank grasped his knife more firmly.

Bob do. " chair do.

David do. " knife do.

Clive do. " chair do.

While Uncle Moses held up his razor in such a way, that the first brigand who descended should fall full upon its keen edge.

The light grew brighter over the opening. The shuffling footsteps drew nearer. Then there was a pause, and low whispers arose. The brigands were immediately above them. The light shone down into the room.

The suspense was now intolerable. It was Frank who broke the silence.

"Who's there?" he cried in a loud, strong, stern, menacing voice, in which there was not the slightest tremor.

At this the whispering above ceased. Everything was perfectly still.

"WHO'S THERE?" cried Frank a second time, in a louder, stronger, sterner, and more menacing voice.

No answer.

All was still.

What did it mean?

"WHO'S THERE?" cried Frank a third time, in the loudest, strongest, sternest, and most menacing tone that he could compass, "SPEAK, OR I'LL FIRE!!!!!!!!!"

This tremendous threat could not have been carried out, of course, with the knives, chairs, and razor of the party below; but at any rate it brought a reply.

"Alla raight!" cried a voice. "O, yais. It's onalee me. Alla safe. Come up here to get some straps for de vettura. Alla raight. I haf joosta come back from Velletre. Haf brot de oder vettura. Scusa de interruption, but haf to-get de straps; dey up here. Alla raight!"

It was the voice of their driver!

At the first sound of that voice there was an instantaneous and immense revulsion of feeling. The dark terror of a moment before was suddenly transformed to an absurdity. They had been making fools of themselves. They felt this very keenly. The chairs were put quietly upon the floor; the knives were pocketed very stealthily; and Uncle Moses' razor was slipped hurriedly into the breast pocket of his coat.

"O!" said-Frank, trying to speak in an easy, careless, matter-of-fact tone. "We didn't know. Shall we leave in the morning?"

"O, yais. Alla r-r-raight," said the driver.

Soon after the party descended the ladder, and took it away. The boys and Uncle Moses made no remark whatever. They all crept silently, and rather sheepishly, back to their beds, feeling very much ashamed of themselves.

And yet there was no reason for shame, for to them the danger seemed real; and believing it to be real, they had not shrunk, but had faced it with very commendable pluck.

This was the end of their troubles on the road. For the remainder of that night they slept soundly. In the morning they awaked refreshed, and found a good breakfast waiting for them. They found also another carriage, in which they entered and resumed their journey.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A beautiful Country.—Magnificent Scenery.—The Approach to Albano.—Enthusiasm of the Boys.—Archaeology versus Appetite.—The Separation of the Boys.—The Story of the Alton Lake and the ancient subterranean Channel.

As they rolled along the road on this last stage of their eventful journey, they were all in the highest spirits. On to Rome! was the watchword. It was a glorious day; the sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky; the air was pure, and brilliant, and genial, and it also had such a wonderful transparency that distant objects seemed much nearer from the distinctness with which their outlines were revealed. The road was a magnificent one,—broad, well paved, well graded,—and though for some miles it was steadily ascending, yet the ascent was made by such an easy slope, that it was really imperceptible; and they bowled along as easily and as merrily as if on level ground. Moreover, the scenery around was of the most attractive character. They were among the mountains; and though there were no snow-clad summits, and no lofty peaks lost amid the clouds, still the lowering forms that appeared on every side were full of grandeur and sublimity. Amid these the road wound, and, at every new turn some fresh scene of beauty or of magnificence was disclosed to their admiring eyes. Now it was a sequestered valley, with a streamlet running through it, and the green of its surface diversified by one or two white cottages, or the darker hue of olive groves and vineyards; again it was some little hamlet far up the sloping mountain-side; again some mouldering tower would appear, perched upon some commanding and almost inaccessible eminence—the remains of a feudal castle, the monument of lawless power overthrown forever. Sometimes they would pass through the street of a town, and have a fresh opportunity of contrasting the lazy and easy-going life of Italy with the busy, energetic, restless, and stirring life of their own far-distant America.

On to Rome!

This day was to land them in the "Eternal City;" and though they enjoyed the drive, still they were eager to have it over, and to find themselves in that place which was once the centre of the world's rule, and continued to be so for so many ages. Their impatience to reach their destination was not, however, excessive, and did not at all prevent them from enjoying to the utmost the journey so long as it lasted. Uncle Moses was the only exception. He was most eager to have it over, and reach some place of rest. True, no accident had happened; but he had gone through enough tribulation, both in body and in mind, to furnish the working, material for a dozen very serious accidents indeed; and the general effect produced upon him was precisely what might have resulted from a really perilous journey.

At length they arrived at the town of Albano, where they intended to remain two hours, and afterwards resume their journey. The town stood on the side of a hill, and the hotel at which they drew up was so situated that it commanded a boundless view.

Few places cherish a stronger local pride than Albano. Tradition identifies this town with no less a place than Alba Longa, so famous in early Roman legends; for though, according to the old accounts, Tullus Hostilius destroyed the city proper of Alba Longa, yet afterwards another town grew on its site, and all around rose up the splendid villas of the Roman nobility. Here, too, Tiberius and Domitian had palaces, where they sought relaxation from the cares of empire in a characteristic way.

On reaching this place, their first care was to order dinner, and then, as there would be some time taken up in preparation for that meal, they looked about for some mode of pastime. The landlord recommended to them a visit to a convent at the top of the hill. He informed them that it stood on the site of a famous temple, and that it was visited every day by large numbers of travellers. On, referring to their guide-book, the boys learned that the temple referred to by the landlord was that of the Latian Jupiter.

As they had nothing else to do, they set out for the convent, and soon reached it. Arriving there, they found spread out before them a view which surpassed anything that they had ever seen in their lives. Far down beneath them descended the declivity of the Alban hill, till it terminated in the Roman Campagna. Then, far away before their eyes it spread for many a mile, till it was terminated by a long blue line, which it needed not the explanation of the monk at their elbow to recognize as the Mediterranean; and this blue line of distant sea spread far away, till it terminated in a projecting promontory, which their guide told them was the Cape of Terracina. But their attention was arrested by an object which was much nearer than this. Through that gray Campagna,—whose gray hue, the result of waste and barrenness, seemed also to mark its hoary age,—through this there ran a silver thread, with many a winding to and fro, now coming full into view, and gleaming in the sun, now retreating, till it was lost to sight.

"What is this?" asked David.

"The Tiber!" said the monk.

At the mention of this august historic name, a thrill involuntarily passed through them. The Tiber! What associations clustered around that word!

Along this silver thread their eyes wandered, till at length it was lost for a time in a dark, irregular mass of something. The atmosphere just now had grown slightly hazy in this direction, so that they could not make out what this was, exactly; whether a hill, or a grove, or a town; but it looked most like a town, and the irregularities and projections seemed like towers and domes. Prominent among these projections was one larger mass, which rose up above all the others, and formed the chief feature in that indistinct mass.

"What is all that?" asked David, in a hesitating way, like one who suspects the truth, but does not feel at all sure about it.

"Dat," said the guide, "dat is Rome; and dat black mass dat you see is de Church of St. Peter's. It's not clear to-day—some time we can see it all plain."

At this the boys said nothing, but stood in silence, looking upon the scene. It was one which might have stirred the souls of even the least emotional, and among this little company there were two, at least, who were quick to kindle into enthusiasm at the presence of anything connected with the storied past. These were David and Clive, who each, though from different causes, now felt himself profoundly moved by this spectacle. David's enthusiasm was that of a scholar; Clive's was that of a poet; yet each was keen in his susceptibility, and eloquent in the expression of his feelings.

As for Frank and Bob, they were far less demonstrative; and though they had plenty of enthusiasm of their own, yet it was not often excited very violently by either poetic feeling or classical reminiscences. The scene before them certainly moved their feelings also, on the present occasion; but they were not in the habit of indulging in exclamatory language, and so they looked on in quiet appreciation, without saying anything.

Not so the other two, David and Clive. Each burst forth in his own way.

"How magnificent!" cried Clive. "What a boundless scene! How fortunate we are to have our first view of Rome! I don't believe there is such another sight in all the world. But what a scene must have appeared from these heights when Rome was in its glory!"

"Yes," said David, chiming in, "such a place doesn't exist anywhere else in all the world. It's the cradle of history, and modern civilization. Here is where the mighty Roman empire began. There is the Rome of the kings and the consuls; and down there is the arena, where they fought out that long battle that arranged the course of future ages."

"Besides," said Clive; "there is the scene of all the latter part of the Aeneid, and of all the immortal legends that arose out of the early growth of Rome. What a place this would be to read Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome!—

"Hail to the great asylum! Hail to the hill-tops seven! Hail to the fire that burns for aye! And the shields that fell from heaven!"

At this moment Frank's attention was attracted to a place not very far away, where the sheen of some silver water flashed forth from amid the dark green hue of the surrounding hills.

"What is that?" he asked of the guide. "It looks like a lake."

"It is de Alban Lake."

"The Alban Lake!" cried David, in a fresh transport of enthusiasm; "the Alban Lake! What, the lake that the Romans drained at the siege of Veii?"

"It is de same," said the guide.

"Is it really? and is the canal or tunnel still in existence?

"It is."

"Is it far away?"

"Not ver far."

"Boys, we must go there. It is the greatest curiosity of the country about here."

"Well," said Frank, "I'm in for any curiosity. But how long will it take for us to see it?"

"It will take more dan one hour," said the guide.

"More than an hour!" said Frank. "Hm—that won't do—we've got to go back at once to get our dinner. It's ready by this time, and then we must leave for Rome."

"Well, it's a great pity," said David, sadly. "I think I should be willing to go without my dinner, to see that wonderful tunnel."

"I shouldn't, then," said Frank, "not for all the tunnels in the world."

"Nor should I," said Bob.

"But what a magnificent effect the lake has when embraced in our view!" said Clive. "How finely is the description in Childe Harold adapted to this scene—

'And near, Albano's scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley; and afar The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast, where sprung the Epic war, "Arms and the man," whose reascending star Rose o'er an empire; but beneath thy right Fully reposed from Rome; and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts thy sight, The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight.'

"Clive," said David, who had waited patiently for him to finish his poetical quotation, "you'll come—won't you?"

"Come? Come where?"

"Why, I want to visit the tunnel of the Alban Lake, and it'll take an hour to do it. If we go, we'll lose our dinner. What do you say? You don't think a dinner's the most important thing in the world?"

"Of course not," said Clive. "Besides, we can pick up some scraps when we return, and eat them in the carriage."

"That's right," said David. "Boys," he continued, appealing to Frank and Bob, "you'd better come."

"What! and lose our dinners?" cried Frank, scornfully. "Catch us at it. No. We require more substantial food than poetry and old ruins. Don't we, Bob?"

"Certainly," said Bob. "For my part poetry and old ruins never were in my line. As for 'Arms and the man' and the 'Sabine farm,' why, all I can say is, I always hated them. I detested Virgil, and Horace, and Cicero, and the whole lot of them, at school; and why I should turn round now, and pretend to like them, I don't know, I'm sure. Horace and Virgil, indeed! Bother Horace and Virgil, I say."

At such flippancy as this both David and Clive looked too much pained to reply. They turned away in silence, and spoke to the guide.

"So you're not coming back to dinner?" said Frank.

"No," said David; "we want to see that tunnel."

"Well, you'll lose your dinner; that's all."

"Of course. We don't care."

"At any rate, don't go and forget about us. We want to leave, for Rome after dinner, and you ought to be back in one hour, at the very farthest."

"O, yes; the guide says it'll only take an hour. We don't intend to spend any more time there than we can help."

"Well, I think you ought to come back," said Bob; "you know very well how poor old Uncle Moses will fidget and worry about you."

"O, no; it's all right. Tell him that the guide is with us, you know."

After a few more words, Frank and Bob, who were ravenously hungry, hurried back to the hotel, and David and Clive, who were also, to tell the truth, equally hungry, resisted their appetites as well as they were able, and accompanied their guide to the Lake Albano.

Most boys are familiar with the story of the Alban Lake; but for the benefit of those who may not have heard of it, or who, having heard, have forgotten, it may be as well to give a brief account of the famous tunnel, which was so very attractive to Clive and David.

The city of Veii had been besieged for nine years, without success, by the Romans; and at length, in the tenth year, a great prodigy occurred, in the shape of the sudden rising of the waters of the Alban Lake to an extraordinary height, without any apparent cause. The Romans, in their bewilderment, sent a messenger to the oracle of Delphi to inquire about it. Before this messenger returned, they also captured a Verentine priest, who informed them that there were certain oracular books in Veii, which declared that Veii could never perish unless the waters of the Alban Lake should reach the sea. Not long afterwards the messenger returned from Delphi, who brought back an answer from the oracle at that place to the same effect. Upon this, the Romans resolved to draw off the waters of the lake so as to let them flow to the sea. Such an undertaking was one of the most laborious kind, especially in an age like that; but the Romans entered upon it, and worked at it with that extraordinary tenacity of purpose which always distinguished them. It was necessary to cut a tunnel through the mountain, through rock of the hardest possible description. But the same age had seen the excavation of other subterranean passages far larger than this, and in the same country, preeminently the Grotto of Posilipo, at Naples, and that of the Cumaean Sibyl, and at length it was accomplished. The people of Veii heard of it, and were filled with alarm. Ambassadors were sent to Rome, with the hope of inducing the Romans to come to some other terms less severe than the surrender of the city; but they were disappointed, and according to the legend, could only comfort themselves by announcing to the Romans a prophecy in the oracular books of Veii, to the effect that, if this siege should be carried through to the capture of the city, Rome itself should be taken by the Gauls soon after. This prophecy, however, had no effect. whatever upon the stern resolution of the Romans.

The subterranean passage to the lake was also supplemented by another, which led to the citadel of Veii. As the time approached for the final assault, the Roman Senate invited all the Roman people to participate in it, and promised them a share of the booty. This promise induced a vast multitude, old and young, to go there. The time at last came. The water of the Alban Lake was let out into the fields, and the party that entered the subterranean passage to the citadel were led by Camillus, while, at the same time, a general assault was made upon the walls by the rest of the army. At that moment the king of Veii happened to be sacrificing in the Temple of Juno, which was in the citadel, and Camillus, with his Romans, were immediately beneath, close enough to hear what he said. It happened that the attendant priest declared that whoever should bring the goddess her share of the victim should conquer. Camillus heard the words, and at once they burst forth upon the astonished Veientans, seized upon the altar, offered the sacrifice, and thus performed what had been declared to be the conditions of victory. After this they held the citadel, and sent a detachment to open the gates to the assaulting army outside. Thus Veil fell; and this is the legend which, like many others belonging to early Roman times, is more full of poetry than of truth.

The tunnel still remains, and is one of the chief curiosities left from ancient times. It is about two miles long, six feet high, and three and a half feet wide.

To this place the guide led David and Clive, and entertained them on the way with the account of its origin, which accorded in most particulars with that which is given above; and though both of the boys were familiar with the story, yet it was not unpleasant to hear it again, told by one who lived in the neighborhood of the place, and had passed his life amid these scenes. It seemed to them to give a certain degree of authenticity to the old legend.

There was not much to see, except an opening in the rock, the mouth of the tunnel, with rushes, and mosses, and grasses, and shrubbery growing around it. Having seen it, they were satisfied, and turned to go back to the hotel. After a short distance, the guide showed them where there was a path turning off through the fields, which formed a short cut back. Upon this they paid him for his trouble, and he went back to the convent, while they went along the path by which he had directed them.



CHAPTER XXV.

The lonely Path.—The sequestered Vale.—The old House.—A Feudal Castle.—A baronial Windmill.—A mysterious Sound.—A terrible Discovery.—At Bay.—The Wild Beasts Lair!—What is It!—A great Bore!

The path by which Clive and David returned to the hotel, went down a slope of the hill into a valley, and led over a second hill, beyond which was Albano. There were no houses visible, for the town was hidden by the hill, except, of course, the convent, which, from its conspicuous position, was never out of sight. As they descended into the valley, they came to a grove of olive trees; and beyond this there was a ruined edifice, built of stone, and apparently long since deserted. It was two stories in height, but the stories were high, and it looked as though it might once have been used, for a tower of some sort. The attention of both of the boys was at once arrested by it, and they stood and looked at it for some time.

"I wonder what it has been," said David.

"No doubt," said Clive, "it is the ruin of some mediaeval castle."

"It does not have much of the look of a castle."

"Why not?"

"O, why, there are no architectural features in it; no battlements; it has, in fact, a rather modern air."

"Not a bit of it," said Clive. "See those old stones grown over with moss; and look at the ivy."

"Yes, but look at the windows. They didn't have such large windows in castles, you know."

"Yes, but these windows were probably made afterwards. The place was once a castle; but at length, of course it became deserted, and began to fall to ruins. Then somebody fixed it tip for a dwelling-house, and made these windows in the walls."

"Well, that's not improbable."

"Not improbable! Why, I'm sure it's very natural. Look how thick the walls are!"

"They do seem pretty thick."

"O, they are real castle walls; there's no doubt at all about that," said Clive, in a positive tone. "Why, they are three feet thick, at least. And, you see, there are signs of an additional story having been above it."

"Yes, I dare say," said David, looking up. "The edges there look ragged, as though some upper portion has been knocked off."

"And I dare say it's been a great place for brigands," said Clive.

"O, bother brigands," said David. "For my part, I begin to think not only that there are no brigands now, but even that there never have been any such people at all.

"Well, I won't go as far as that," said Clive, "but I certainly begin to have my doubts about them."

"They're all humbugs," said David.

"All of our brigands have been total failures," said Clive.

"Yes," said David; "they all turned out to be the most amiable people in the world. But come; suppose we go inside, and explore this old ruin. It may be something famous. I wish the guide were, here."

"O, well look at it first all over, and then ask at the hotel."

"Yes, that's the way."

"But have we time?"

"O, of course; it won't take us five minutes."

Upon this Clive started off for the ruined structure, followed by David.

It was, as has been said, two stories in height. In the lower story was a small, narrow doorway. The door was gone. There were no windows, and it was quite dark inside. It was about twelve feet wide, and fifteen feet long. At one end were some piles of fagots heaped together. The height was about fifteen feet. Before them they saw a rude ladder, running up to the story above. Its feet rested near the back of the room. There was no floor to the house, but only the hard-packed earth.

"There's nothing here," said David, looking around.

"Let's go into the upper story," said Clive.

To this proposal David assented quite readily; and accordingly they both entered, and walked towards the ladder. Clive ascended first, and David followed. In a few moments they were in the upper story.

Here it was light, for there were two windows in front. There was a floor, and the walls were plastered. Fragments of straw lay about, intermingled with chaff, as though the place had been used for some sort of a store-house.

Overhead there were a number of heavy beams, which seemed too numerous and complicated to serve merely for the support of a roof; and among them was one large, round beam, which ran across. At this both of the boys stared very curiously.

"I wonder what all that can be for," asked David.

"O, no doubt," said Clive, "it's some of the massive wood-work of the old castle."

"But what was the good of it?"

"Why, to support the roof, of course," said Clive.

"Yes, but there is too much. They would never have needed all that to support so small a roof. It's a waste of timber."

"O, well, you know you mustn't expect the same ingenuity in an Italian builder that you would in an American."

"I don't know about that. Why not? Do you mean to say that the Italians are inferior to the Americans in architecture? Pooh, man! in America there is no architecture at all; while here, in every little town, they have some edifice that in America would be considered something wonderful."

"O, well, you know they are very clumsy in practical matters, in spite of their Artistic superiority. But apart from that I've just been thinking that this is only a part of some large castle, and this lumber work was, perhaps, once the main support of a massive roof. So, after all, it would have its use."

David said nothing for some time. He was looking earnestly at the wood-work.

"I'll tell you what it is," said he, at last. "I've got it. It isn't a castle at all. It's a windmill."

"A windmill!" exclaimed Clive, contemptuously. "What nonsense! It's an old tower—the keep of some mediaeval castle."

"It's a windmill!" persisted David. "Look at that big beam. It's round. See in one corner those projecting pieces. They were once part of some projecting wheel. Why, of course, it's a windmill. The other end of that cross-beam goes outside for the fans to be attached to it. This big cross-beam was the shaft. Of course that's it."

Clive looked very much crest-fallen at this. He was unable to disprove a fact of which the evidences were now so plain; but he struggled to maintain a little longer the respectability of his feudal castle.

"Well," said he, "I dare say it may have been used afterwards for a windmill; but I am sure it was originally built as a baronial hall, some time during the middle ages. Afterwards it began to go to ruin; and then, I dare say, some miller fellow has taken possession of the keep, and torn off the turrets and battlements, and rigged up this roof with the beams, and thus turned it into a windmill."

"O, well, you may be right," said David. "Of course it's impossible to tell."

"O, but I'm sure of it," said Clive, positively.

David laughed.

"O, then," said he, "in that case, I've got nothing to say about it at all."

In spite of his reiterated conviction in the baronial castle, Clive was unable to prevent an expression of disgust from being discernible on his fine face, and without another word, he turned to go down.

David followed close after him.

As Clive put his feet down on the nearest rung of the ladder, he was startled by a noise below. It came from the pile of fagots, and was of the most extraordinary character. It was a shuffling, scraping, growling, snapping noise; an indescribable medley of peculiar sounds.

Clive instantly drew back his foot, as though he had trodden on a snake.

"What's the matter?" cried David, in amazement.

"Didn't you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"Why, that noise!"

"Noise?"

"Yes."

"What noise?"

Clive's eyes opened wide, and he said in a low, agitated whisper,—

"Something's down there!"

At this David's face turned pale. He knelt down at the opening, and bent his head over.

The sounds, which had ceased for a moment, became once more audible. There was a quick, beating, rustling, rubbing noise among the fagots, and he could occasionally hear the rap of footfalls on the floor. It was too dark to see anything, for the narrow door was the only opening, and the end of the chamber where the fagots lay was wrapped in deep gloom.

Clive knelt down too, and then both boys, kneeling there, listened eagerly and intently with all their ears.

"What is it?" asked Clive.

"I'm rare I don't know," said David, gloomily.

"Is it a brigand?" whispered Clive, dismally.

"I don't know, I'm sore," said poor David, who, in spite of his recent declaration of his belief that all brigands were humbugs, felt something like his old trepidation at Clive's suggestion.

They listened a little longer.

The noise subsided for a time, and then began again. This time it was much louder than before. There was the same rustling, rubbing, cracking, snapping sound made by something among the fagots; there was a clatter as of feet on the hard ground; then there was a quick, reiterated rubbing; then another peculiar noise, which sounded exactly like that which a dog makes when shaking himself violently after coming out of the water. After this there was a low, deep sound, midway between a yawn and a growl; then all was still.

David and Clive raised themselves softly, and looked at one another.

"Well?" said Clive.

"Well?" said David.

"I don't know," said Clive.

"I don't know," said David.

"What shall we do?" said Clive.

David shook his head. Then, looking down the opening once more, he again raised his eyes, and fixing them with an awful look on Clive, he said, in a dismal tone,—

"It's not a brigand!"

"No," said Clive, "I don't think it is, either."

David looked down again; then he looked up at Clive with the same expression, and said in the same dismal tone as before,—

"Clive!"

"Well?"

"It's a wild beast!"

Clive looked back at David with eyes that expressed equal horror, and said not a word.

"Don't you think so?" asked David.

"Yes," said Clive.

Then:—

"How can we get down?" said David. do. said Clive.

"I, don't know!" said David. do. said Clive.

Once more the boys put their heads down to the hole and listened. The noises were soon renewed—such noises as,— Snapping, with variations. cracking, " do. deep-breathing, " do. scratching, " do. sighing, " do. yawning, " do. growling, " do. grunting, " do. smacking, " do. thumping, " do. jerking, " do. rattling, " do. pushing, with variations, sliding, " do. shaking, " do. jerking, " do. twitching, " do. groaning, " do. pattering, " do. rolling, " do. rubbing, " do. together with many more of a similar character, all of which went to indicate to the minds of both of the boys the presence in that lower chamber, and close by that pile of fagots, of some animal, in a state of wakefulness, restlessness, and, as they believed, of vigilant watchfulness and ferocity.

"I wonder how it got there," said David. "That olive grove—that's it—O, that's it. He saw us come in here, and followed us."

"I don't know," said Clive. "He may have been among the fagots when we came in, and our coming has waked him."

"I wonder that the guide didn't warn us."

"O, he never thought, I suppose."

"No; he thought we would keep by the path, and go straight to the hotel."

"What fools we were!"

"Well, it can't be helped now."

"I wonder what it is," said Clive, after another anxious pause.

"A wild beast," said David, dismally.

"Of course; but what kind of a one?"

"It may be a wolf."

"I wonder if there are many wolves about here."

"Wolves? Of course. All Italy is fall of them."

"Yes, but this beast has hard feet. Don't you hear what a noise he makes sometimes with his feet? A wolf's feet are like a dog's. I'm afraid it's something even worse than a wolf."

"Something worse?"

"Yes."

"What can be worse?"

"Why, a wild boar. Italy is the greatest country in the world for wild boars."

After this there followed a long period of silence and despondency.

Suddenly Clive grasped the upper part of the ladder, and began to pull at it with all his might.

"What are you trying to do?" asked David.

"Why, we might draw up the ladder, and put it out of one of the windows, you know, and get out that way—mightn't we?"

"I don't know," said David. "We might try."

Upon this both boys seized the ladder, and tried to pull it from its place. But their efforts were entirely in vain. The ladder was clumsily made out of heavy timbers, and their puny efforts did not avail to move it one single inch from its place. So they soon desisted, and turned away in despair. Clive then went to one of the windows, and looked down. David followed him. They looked out for some time in silence.

"Couldn't we let ourselves drop somehow?" asked Clive.

David shook his head.

"It's nearly twenty feet from the window ledge," said he, "and I'm afraid one of us might break some of our bones."

"O, it's not so very far," said Clive. "Yes, but if we were to drop, that wild boar would hear us, and rush out in a moment."

At this terrible suggestion, Clive turned away, and regarded David with his old look of horror.

"It's no use trying," said David; "that horrible wild boar waked up when we entered his den. He saw us going up, and has been watching ever since for us to come down. They are the most ferocious, most pitiless, and most cruel of all wild beasts. Why; if we had the ladder down from the window, and could get to the ground, he'd pounce upon us before we could get even as far as the path."

Clive left the window, and sat down in despair, leaning against the wall, while David stood staring blankly out into vacancy. Their position was now not merely an embarrassing one. It seemed dangerous in the extreme. From this place they saw no sign of any human habitation. They could not see the convent. Albano was hidden by the hill already spoken of; nor had they any idea how far away it might be. This path over which they had gone had not appeared like one which was much used; and how long it might be before any passers-by would approach was more than they could tell.

"Well," said Clive, "we've lost our dinner, and it's my firm belief that we'll lose our tea, too."

David made no reply.

Clive arose, and walked over to him.

"Dave," said he, "look here. I'm getting desperate. I've a great mind to go down the ladder as quietly as possible, and then run for it."

"No, don't—don't," cried David, earnestly.

"Well, I'm not going to stay here and starve to death," said Clive.

"Pooh! don't be impatient," said David. "Of course they'll hunt us up, and rescue us. Only wait a little longer."

"Well, I don't know. If they don't come soon, I'll certainly venture down."

After an hour or so, during which no help came, Clive did as he said, and, in spite of David's remonstrances, ventured down. He went about half way. Then there was a noise of so peculiar a character that he suddenly retreated up again, and remarked to David, who all the time had been watching him in intense anxiety, and begging him to come back,—

"Well, Dave, perhaps I'd better wait They ought to be here before long."

So the two prisoners waited.



CHAPTER XXVI.

Despair of Uncle Moses.—Frank and Bob endeavor to offer Consolation.—The Search.—The Discovery at the Convent.—The Guide.—The old House.—The Captives.—The Alarm given.—Flight of Uncle Moses and his Party.—Albans! to the Rescue!—The Delivering Host!

On leaving the convent, Frank and Bob had hurried back to Albano, where they found dinner ready, and Uncle Moses waiting for them in anxious impatience. This anxious impatience was not by any means diminished when he saw only two out of the four coming back to him, nor was it alleviated one whit when they informed him that David and Clive had gone to see some subterranean passage, of the nature or location of which they had but the vaguest possible conception. His first impulse was to go forth at once in search of them, and bring them back with him by main force; and it was only with extreme difficulty that Frank and Bob dissuaded him from this.

"Why, they're perfectly safe—as safe as if they were here," said Frank. "It isn't possible for anything at all to happen to them. The convent guide—a monk—is with them, and a very fine fellow he is, too. He knows all about the country."

"O, yes; but these monks ain't to my taste. I don't like 'em," said Uncle Moses.

"It'll take them an hour to get back here from the place. There's no use for you to try to go there, for you don't know the way; and if you did go, why, they might come back and find you gone, and then we'd have to wait for you. So, you see, the best thing to do, Uncle Moses, is for us all to set quietly down, get our dinner, and wait for them to come back."

The numerous frights which Uncle Moses had already been called on to experience about his precious but too troublesome charges had always turned out to be groundless; and the result had invariably been a happy one; yet this did not at all prevent Uncle Moses from feeling as anxious, as worried, and as unsettled, on this occasion, as he had ever been before. He sat down to the table, therefore, because Frank urged it, and he hardly knew how to move without his cooperation. He said nothing. He was silenced, but not convinced. He ate nothing. He merely dallied with his knife and fork, and played listlessly with the viands upon his plate. Frank and Bob were both as hungry as hunters, and for some time had no eyes but for their food. At last, however, they saw that Uncle Moses was eating nothing; whereupon they began to remonstrate with him, and tried very earnestly to induce him to take something. In vain. Uncle Moses was beyond the reach of persuasion. His appetite was gone with his wandering boys, and would not come back until they should come also. The dinner ended, and then Uncle Moses grew more restless than ever. He walked out, and paced the street up and down, every little while coming back to the hotel, and looking anxiously in to see if the wanderers had returned. Frank and Bob felt sorry that he should feel so much unnecessary anxiety, but they did not know what to do, or to say. They had done and said all that they possibly could. Uncle Moses refused to be comforted, and so there was nothing more for them to do.

At length the hour passed which Frank had allotted as the time of their absence, and still they did not come. Uncle Moses now came, and stared at them with a disturbed face and trembling frame. He said not a word. The situation was one which, to his mind, rendered words useless.