"It is the old pagan phantom that I told you of, who sought to betray the blessed saints!" "Yes; it is a phantom!" cried Donatello, with a shudder.

"Ah, dearest signorina, what a fearful thing has beset you in those dark corridors!" "Nonsense, Donatello," said the sculptor.

"The man is no more a phantom than yourself.

The only marvel is, how he comes to be hiding himself in the catacomb.

Possibly our guide might solve the riddle." The spectre himself here settled the point of his tangibility, at all events, and physical substance, by approaching a step nearer, and laying his hand on Kenyon's arm.
"Inquire not what I am, nor wherefore I abide in the darkness," said he, in a hoarse, harsh voice, as if a great deal of damp were clustering in his throat.