“In what manner?”
“Ask the killers of September, thou. They are held honest men, I believe.”
“It is enough,” said I. “Lead on, Citizen Gusman, and find us a glint of light, in the name of God!”
I glanced, with a shudder, at Carinne. Thank heaven! she had not, it appeared, understood. So here, in one dreadful lime-cemented heap, were massed the victims of those unspeakable days! I remembered the Abbaye and the blood-mark on the lip of Mademoiselle de Lâge; and I held the girl to my side, as we walked, with a pressure that was convulsive.
Again the torch danced before us, and again we followed; and yet again the deadman called us to a stop, and whirled his half-devoured brand.
“Observe well,” said he; “for it is in this quarter ye must sojourn, and here seek refuge when warning comes.”
This time a very hill of skulls and ribs and shanks—a lifeless crater—a Monte Testaccio of broken vessels that had once contained the wine of life. The heap filled a wide recess and rose twenty feet to the roof.
“The contribution of ‘Les Innocens,’” said Gusman, as if he were some spectral minister of affairs announcing in the Convention of the dead a Sectional subscription.
He pointed to a little closet of stone, like a friar’s cell, that pierced the wall to one side of the heap.
“Behold your hermitage!” said he.