With good-natured indulgence for what he seemed to consider as the whim of an eccentric Forestiero, the Italian carelessly threw his eyes upwards; but, as soon as he perceived that there was really no light, he lifted his hands with a vivid expression of wonder and alarm.
"The lamp is extinguished!" cried he.

"The lamp that has been burning these four hundred years! This surely must portend some great misfortune; and, by my advice, Signore, you will hasten hence, lest the tower tumble on our heads.

A priest once told me that, if the Virgin withdrew her blessing and the light went out, the old Palazzo del Torte would sink into the earth, with all that dwell in it.

There will be a terrible crash before morning!" The stranger made the best of his way from the doomed premises; while Kenyon--who would willingly have seen the tower crumble down before his eyes, on condition of Hilda's safety--determined, late as it was, to attempt ascertaining if she were in her dove-cote.
Passing through the arched entrance,--which, as is often the case with Roman entrances, was as accessible at midnight as at noon,--he groped his way to the broad staircase, and, lighting his wax taper, went glimmering up the multitude of steps that led to Hilda's door.

The hour being so unseasonable, he intended merely to knock, and, as soon as her voice from within should reassure him, to retire, keeping his explanations and apologies for a fitter time.