Ilaria screamed and stumbled. The passage, widening beneath her feet, broke downwards into a pool of the waters of Styx. A lost stair had betrayed her.
Francesco, speeding forward, caught her garments, drew her back. She staggered and yielded to his arms. They leaned together against the wall of the grotto. The earth had fallen away a little at the shock, revealing in the uncertain light the white figure of a woman.
They both stared at it, holding their breath.
The image stood embedded in the rocky cavity, whither some force had in past ages carried her from her old position, for she had evidently presided over the Piscina, or the bath of some rich Roman, who rejoiced in her Greek fairness. The face was free, but soil and mould had given it a half-sinister expression. The limbs, so far as visible,—and the earth in falling away had left one white side of the body entirely bare,—were perfect.
Ilaria struggled to free herself from Francesco's embrace and sank, half fainting, at the statue's base.
"The peril is over," said Francesco, and echoes filled the whole cavern with murmuring. "Dearest, be not afraid! Look at me!"
As her head drooped, he knelt beside her, half distraught, and rubbed her wrists and forehead with water from the pool.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him, as a child might.
"Fonté Gaia!" she whispered.
The words had been in his own mind.