saw that it was one of the ramparts encircling Rome.
"Mon dieu!" cried Danglars, "we are not returning to Rome; then
it is not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another
idea presents itself — what if they should be" —
His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories,
so little believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he
remembered the adventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when
it was intended that he should marry Mademoiselle Eugenie. "They
are robbers, perhaps," he muttered. Just then the carriage rolled
on something harder than gravel road. Danglars hazarded a look on
both sides of the road, and perceived monuments of a singular form,
and his mind now recalled all the details Morcerf had related, and
comparing them with his own situation, he felt sure that he must be
on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of valley, he perceived a
circular excavation. It was Caracalla's circus. On a word from the
man who rode at the side of the carriage, it stopped. At the same
time the door was opened. "Scendi!" exclaimed a commanding voice.
Danglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak
Italian, he understood it very well. More dead than alive, he
looked around him. Four men surrounded him, besides the
postilion.
"Di qua," said one of the men, descending a little path leading
out of the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without
opposition, and had no occasion to turn around to see whether the
three others were following him. Still it appeared as though they
were stationed at equal distances from one another, like sentinels.
After walking for about ten minutes, during which Danglars did not
exchange a single word with his guide, he found himself between a
hillock and a clump of high weeds; three men, standing silent,
formed a triangle, of which he was the centre. He wished to speak,
but his tongue refused to move. "Avanti!" said the same sharp and
imperative voice.
This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if theimperative voice.
This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the
word and gesture had not explained the speaker's meaning, it was
clearly expressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so
rudely that he struck against the guide. This guide was our friend
Peppino, who dashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path
which none but lizards or polecats could have imagined to be an
open road. Peppino stopped before a pit overhung by thick hedges;
the pit, half open, afforded a passage to the young man, who
disappeared like the evil spirits in the fairy tales. The voice and
gesture of the man who followed Danglars ordered him to do the
same. There was no longer any doubt, the bankrupt was in the hands
of Roman banditti. Danglars acquitted himself like a man placed
between two dangerous positions, and who is rendered brave by fear.
Notwithstanding his large stomach, certainly not intended to
penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he slid down like Peppino,
and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he touched the ground,
he opened his eyes. The path was wide, but dark. Peppino, who cared
little for being recognized now that he was in his own territories,
struck a light and lit a torch. Two other men descended after
Danglars forming the rearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he
happened to stop, they came by a gentle declivity to the
intersection of two corridors. The walls were hollowed out in
sepulchres, one above the other, and which seemed in contrast with
the white stones to open their large dark eyes, like those which we
see on the faces of the dead. A sentinel struck the rings of his
carbine against his left hand. "Who comes there?" he cried.
"A friend, a friend!" said Peppino; "but where is the
captain?"
"There," said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a
spacious crypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which
shone into the passage through the large arched openings. "Fine
spoil, captain, fine spoil!" said Peppino in Italian, and takingspoil, captain, fine spoil!" said Peppino in Italian, and taking
Danglars by the collar of his coat he dragged him to an opening
resembling a door, through which they entered the apartment which
the captain appeared to have made his dwelling-place.
"Is this the man?" asked the captain, who was attentively
reading Plutarch's "Life of Alexander."
"Himself, captain — himself."
"Very well, show him to me." At this rather impertinent order,
Peppino raised his torch to the face of Danglars, who hastily
withdrew that he might not have his eyelashes burnt. His agitated
features presented the appearance of pale and hideous terror. "The
man is tired," said the captain, "conduct him to his bed."
"Oh," murmured Danglars," that bed is probably one of the
coffins hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be
death from one of the poniards I see glistening in the
darkness."
From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the
chamber now arose the companions of the man who had been found by
Albert de Morcerf reading "Caesar's Commentaries," and by Danglars
studying the "Life of Alexander." The banker uttered a groan and
followed his guide; he neither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no
longer possessed strength, will, power, or feeling; he followed
where they led him. At length he found himself at the foot of a
staircase, and he mechanically lifted his foot five or six times.
Then a low door was opened before him, and bending his head to
avoid striking his forehead he entered a small room cut out of the
rock. The cell was clean, though empty, and dry, though situated at
an immeasurable distance under the earth. A bed of dried grass
covered with goat-skins was placed in one corner. Danglars
brightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave some promise
of safety. "Oh, God be praised," he said; "it is a real bed!"
"Ecco!" said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell, he
closed the door upon him. A bolt grated and Danglars was a
prisoner. If there had been no bolt, it would have been impossible