And excepting the sapphire sky, studded with rubies, above the endless line of the Campagna, which was likewise changed into a sparkling lake, the dull green of the herbage turning to a liquid emerald tint, there was nothing to be seen, neither a hillock nor a flock--nothing, indeed, but Cardinal Boccanera's black figure, erect among the tombs, and looking, as it were, enlarged as it stood out against the last purple flush of the sunset.
Early on the following morning Pierre, eager to see everything, returned to the Appian Way in order to visit the catacomb of St.Calixtus, the most extensive and remarkable of the old Christian cemeteries, and one, too, where several of the early popes were buried.

You ascend through a scorched garden, past olives and cypresses, reach a shanty of boards and plaster in which a little trade in "articles of piety" is carried on, and there a modern and fairly easy flight of steps enables you to descend.
Pierre fortunately found there some French Trappists, who guard these catacombs and show them to strangers.

One brother was on the point of going down with two French ladies, the mother and daughter, the former still comely and the other radiant with youth.

They stood there smiling, though already slightly frightened, while the monk lighted some long, slim candles.

He was a man with a bossy brow, the large, massive jaw of an obstinate believer and pale eyes bespeaking an ingenuous soul.
"Ah! Monsieur l'Abbe," he said to Pierre, "you've come just in time.