“It is. We were here at dark. But hide yourselves under the rampart, or ye will be drenched. What a storm! Hail will fall, I think.”
In fact Niger’s fear was justified, for soon hail began to fall, at first fine, then larger and more frequent. The air grew cold at once. While standing under the rampart, sheltered from the wind and icy missiles, they conversed in low voices.
“Even should some one see us,” said Niger, “there will be no suspicion; we look like people waiting for the storm to pass. But I fear that they may not bring the bodies out till morning.”
“The hail-storm will not last,” said Petronius. “We must wait even till daybreak.”
They waited, listening to hear the sound of the procession. The hail-storm passed, but immediately after a shower began to roar. At times the wind rose, and brought from the “Putrid Pits” a dreadful odor of decaying bodies, buried near the surface and carelessly.
“I see a light through the mist,” said Niger,—“one, two, three,—those are torches. See that the mules do not snort,” said he, turning to the men.
“They are coming!” said Petronius.
The lights were growing more and more distinct. After a time it was possible to see torches under the quivering flames.
Niger made the sign of the cross, and began to pray. Meanwhile the gloomy procession drew nearer, and halted at last in front of the temple of Libitina. Petronius, Vinicius, and Niger pressed up to the rampart in silence, not knowing why the halt was made. But the men had stopped only to cover their mouths and faces with cloths to ward off the stifling stench which at the edge of the “Putrid Pits” was simply unendurable; then they raised the biers with coffins and moved on. Only one coffin stopped before the temple. Vinicius sprang toward it, and after him Petronius, Niger, and two British slaves with the litter.
But before they had reached it in the darkness, the voice of Nazarius was heard, full of pain,—