Shortly after six o’clock in the evening we left the Villa de Angelis.  The day had been as usual cloudlessly serene; but a gentle sea-breeze, of which I have spoken, rose in the afternoon and brought with it a refreshing coolness.  We had arranged a sort of couch in the landau with many cushions for my brother, and he mounted into the carriage with more ease than I had expected.  I sat beside him, with Raffaelle facing me on the opposite seat.  We drove down the hill of Posilipo through the ilex-trees and tamarisk-bushes that then skirted the sea, and so into the town.  John spoke little except to remark that the carriage was an easy one.  As we were passing through one of the principal streets he bent over to me and said, “You must not be alarmed if I show you to-day a strange sight.  Some women might perhaps be frightened at what We are going to see; but my poor sister has known already so much of trouble that a light thing like this will not affect her.”  In spite of his encomiums upon my supposed courage, I felt alarmed and agitated by his words.  There was a vagueness in them which frightened me, and bred that indefinite apprehension which is often infinitely more terrifying than the actual object which inspires it.  To my inquiries he would give no further response than to say that he had whilst at Posilipo made some investigations in Naples leading to a strange discovery, which he was anxious to communicate to me.  After traversing a considerable distance, we had penetrated apparently into the heart of the town.  The streets grew narrower and more densely thronged; the houses were more dirty and tumbledown, and the appearance of the people themselves suggested that we had reached some of the lower quarters of the city.  Here we passed through a further network of small streets of the name of which I took no note, and found ourselves at last in a very dark and narrow lane called the Via del Giardino.  Although my brother had, so far as I had observed, given no orders to the coachman, the latter seemed to have no difficulty in finding his Way, driving rapidly in the Neapolitan fashion, and proceeding direct as to a place with which he was already familiar.

In the Via del Giardino the houses were of great height, and overhung the street so as nearly to touch one another.  It seemed that this quarter had been formerly inhabited, if not by the aristocracy, at least by a class very much superior to that which now lived there; and many of the houses were large and dignified, though long since parcelled out into smaller tenements.  It was before such a house that we at last brought up.  Here must have been at one time a house or palace of some person of distinction, having a long and fine façade adorned with delicate pilasters, and much florid ornamentation of the Renaissance period.  The ground-floor was divided into a series of small shops, and its upper storeys were evidently peopled by sordid families of the lowest class.  Before one of these little shops, now closed and having its windows carefully blocked with boards, our carriage stopped.  Raffaelle alighted, and taking a key from his pocket unlocked the door, and assisted John to leave the carriage.  I followed, and directly we had crossed the threshold, the boy locked the door behind us, and I heard the carriage drive away.

We found ourselves in a narrow and dark passage, and as soon as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I perceived there was at the end of it a low staircase leading to some upper room, and on the right a door which opened into the closed shop.  My brother moved slowly along the passage, and began to ascend the stairs.  He leant with one hand on Raffaelle’s arm, taking hold of the balusters with the other.  But I could see that to mount the stairs cost him considerable effort, and he paused frequently to cough and get his breath again.  So we reached a landing at the top, and found ourselves in a small chamber or magazine directly over the shop.  It was quite empty except for a few broken chairs, and appeared to be a small loft formed by dividing what had once been a high room into two storeys, of which the shop formed the lower.  A long window, which had no doubt once formed one of several in the walls of this large room, was now divided across its width by the flooring, and with its upper part served to light the loft, while its lower panes opened into the shop.  The ceiling was, in consequence of these alterations, comparatively low, but though much mutilated, retained evident traces of having been at one time richly decorated, with the raised mouldings and pendants common in the sixteenth century.  At one end of the loft was a species of coved and elaborately carved dado, of which the former use was not obvious; but the large original room had without doubt been divided in length as Well as in height, as the lath-and-plaster walls at either end of the loft had evidently been no part of the ancient structure.

My brother sat down in one of the old chairs, and seemed to be collecting his strength before speaking.  My anxiety was momentarily increasing, and it was a great relief when he began, talking in a low voice as one that had much to say and wished to husband his strength.

“I do not know whether you will recollect my having told you of something Mr. Gaskell once said about the music of Graziani’s ‘Areopagita’ suite.  It had always, he used to say, a curious effect upon his imagination, and the melody of the Gagliarda especially called up to his thoughts in some strange way a picture of a certain hall where people were dancing.  He even went so far as to describe the general appearance of the room itself, and of the persons who were dancing there.”

“Yes,” I answered, “I remember your telling me of this;” and indeed my memory had in times past so often rehearsed Mr. Gaskell’s description that, although I had not recently thought of it, its chief features immediately returned to my mind.

“He described it,” my brother continued, “as a long hall with an arcade of arches running down one side, of the fantastic Gothic of the Renaissance.  At the end was a gallery or balcony for the musicians, which on its front carried a coat of arms.”

I remembered this perfectly and told John so, adding that the shield bore a cherub’s head fanning three lilies on a golden field.

“It is strange,” John went on, “that the description of a scene which our friend thought a mere effort of his own imagination has impressed itself so deeply on both our minds.  But the picture which he drew was more than a fancy, for we are at this minute in the very hall of his dream.”

I could not gather what my brother meant, and thought his reason was failing him; but he continued, “This miserable floor on which we stand has of course been afterwards built in; but you see above you the old ceiling, and here at the end was the musicians’ gallery with the shield upon its front.”

He pointed to the carved and whitewashed dado which had hitherto so puzzled me.  I stepped up to it, and although the lath-and-plaster partition wall was now built around it, it was clear that its curved outline might very easily, as John said, have formed part of the front of a coved gallery.  I looked closet at the relief-work which had adorned it.  Though the edges were all rubbed off, and the mouldings in some cases entirely removed, I could trace without difficulty a shield in the midst; and a more narrow inspection revealed underneath the whitewash, which had partly peeled away, enough remnants of colour to show that it had certainly been once painted gold and borne a cherub’s head with three lilies.

“That is the shield of the old Neapolitan house of Doma-Cavalli,” my brother continued; “they bore a cherub’s head fanning three lilies on a shield or.  It was in the balcony behind this shield, long since blocked up as you see, that the musicians sat on that ball night of which Gaskell dreamt.  From it they looked down on the hall below where dancing was going forward, and I will now take you downstairs that you may see if the description tallies.”

So saying, he raised himself, and descending the stairs with much less difficulty than he had shown in mounting them, flung open the door which I had seen in the passage and ushered us into the shop on the ground-floor.  The evening light had now faded so much that we could scarcely see even in the passage, and the shop having its windows barricaded with shutters, was in complete darkness.  Raffaelle, however, struck a match and lit three half-burnt candles in a tarnished sconce upon the wall.

The shop had evidently been lately in the occupation of a wine-seller, and there were still several empty wooden wine-butts, and some broken flasks on shelves.  In one corner I noticed that the earth which formed the floor had been turned up with spades.  There was a small heap of mould, and a large flat stone was thus exposed below the surface.  This stone had an iron ring attached to it, and seemed to cover the aperture of a well, or perhaps a vault.  At the back of the shop, and furthest from the street, were two lofty arches separated by a column in the middle, from which the outside casing had been stripped.

To these arches John pointed and said, “That is a part of the arcade which once ran down the whole length of the hall.  Only these two arches are now left, and the fine marbles which doubtless coated the outside of this dividing pillar have been stripped off.  On a summer’s night about one hundred years ago dancing was going on in this hall.  There were a dozen couples dancing a wild step such as is never seen now.  The tune that the musicians were playing in the gallery above was taken from the ‘Areopagita’ suite of Graziani.  Gaskell has often told me that when he played it the music brought with it to his mind a sense of some impending catastrophe, which culminated at the end of the first movement of the Gagliarda.  It was just at that moment, Sophy, that an Englishman who was dancing here was stabbed in the back and foully murdered.”

I had scarcely heard all that John had said, and had certainly not been able to take in its import; but without waiting to hear if I should say anything, he moved across to the uncovered stone with the ring in it.  Exerting a strength which I should have believed entirely impossible in his weak condition, he applied to the stone a lever which lay ready at hand.  Raffaelle at the same time seized the ring, and so they were able between them to move the covering to one side sufficiently to allow access to a small staircase which thus appeared to view.  The stair was a winding one, and once led no doubt to some vaults below the ground-floor.  Raffaelle descended first, taking in his hand the sconce of three candles, which he held above his head so as to fling a light down the steps.  John went next, and then I followed, trying to support my brother if possible with my hand.  The stairs were very dry, and on the walls there was none of the damp or mould which fancy usually associates with a subterraneous vault.  I do not know what it was I expected to see, but I had an uneasy feeling that I was on the brink of some evil and distressing discovery.  After we had descended about twenty steps we could see the entry to some vault or underground room, and it was just at the foot of the stairs that I saw something lying, as the light from the candles fell on it from above.  At first I thought it was a heap of dust or refuse, but on looking closer it seemed rather a bundle of rags.  As my eyes penetrated the gloom, I saw there was about it some tattered cloth of a faded green tint, and almost at the same minute I seemed to trace under the clothes the lines or dimensions of a human figure.  For a moment I imagined it was some poor man lying face downwards and bent up against the wall.  The idea of a man or of a dead body being there shocked me violently, and I cried to my brother, “Tell me, what is it?” At that instant the light from.  Raffaelle’s candles fell in a somewhat different direction.  It lighted up the white bowl of a human skull, and I saw that what I had taken for a man’s form was instead that of a clothed skeleton.  I turned faint and sick for an instant, and should have fallen had it not been for John, who put his arm about me and sustained me with an unexpected strength.

“God help us!” I exclaimed, “let us go.  I cannot bear this; there are foul vapours here; let us get back to the outer air.”

He took me by the arm, and pointing at the huddled heap, said, “Do you know whose bones those are?  That is Adrian Temple.  After it was all over, they flung his body down the steps, dressed in the clothes he wore.”

At that name, uttered in so ill-omened a place, I felt a fresh access of terror.  It seemed as though the soul of that wicked man must be still hovering over his unburied remains, and boding evil to us all.  A chill crept over me, the light, the walls, my brother, and Raffaelle all swam round, and I sank swooning on the stairs.

When I returned fully to my senses we were in the landau again making our way back to the Villa de Angelis.