"It is, as you say, a self-portrait. Or so we believe. It is surrounded, symbolically, by the triumvirate of Hell."

"So you don't know, specifically, the act to which he confesses?"

"The details are unimportant," replied the monk. "All that matters is that he wishes to repent."

Jennings and Thorn exchanged a long glance; Thorn's face was gripped with frustration.

"Can I talk to him?" Thorn asked.

"It will do no good."

Thorn glanced at Spilletto and shuddered at the sight of the glistening, frozen face.

"Father Spilletto," he said firmly, "my name is Thorn."

The priest stared mutely upward; unmoving, unhearing.

"It's no use," advised the monk,

But Thorn would not be stopped.

"Father Spilletto," Thorn repeated, "There was a child. I want to know where it's from." "Please, Signor," entreated the monk. "You confessed to them!" shouted Thorn. "Now confess to me! I want to know where that child is from!"

"I'll have to ask you to . . ."

"Father Spilletto! Hear me! Tell me!"

The monk attempted to reach Spilletto's chair, but Jennings blocked the way.

"Father Spilletto!" shouted Thorn into the mute, unmoving face. "I beg you! Where is she?! Who was she?! Please! Answer me now!"

And suddenly they were jarred, the very atmosphere thundering around them as bells in the church tower began to peal. It was ear-splitting; Thorn and Jennings shuddered as the sound rebounded off the stone monastery wall. Then Thorn looked down and saw it. The priest's hand was beginning to tremble and slowly rise.

"The coal!" shouted Thorn. "Give him the coal!"

Jennings' hand moved quickly, grabbing the lump of coal from the table and thrusting it into the trembling hand. As the bells continued to peal, the priest's hand jerked stiffly across the stone, forming crude letters that wavered with each impact of the deafening sound.

"It's a word!" exclaimed Jennings excitedly. "C . . . E . . . R . . ."

The priest was shaking in every fiber as he struggled to continue, the pain of exertion plain as his disfigured mouth stretched open, emitting an agonized animal-like moan.

"Keep going!" urged Thorn.

". . . V . . » read Jennings, "... E ... T .. ."

And suddenly the bells went silent; the priest dropped the coal from his spasmed fingers as his head

fell back against the chair. Exhausted, his eyes gazed upward, his face bathed in sweat.

As the echo faded around them, they stood in silence, staring at the word scrawled out on the table. Cervet. . .?" asked Thorn.

"Cervet," echoed Jennings.

"Is that Italian?"

They turned to the monk who looked at the word, and then to Spilletto, with confusion in their eyes.

"Does that mean something to you?" asked Thorn.

"Cerveteri," the monk replied. "I think Cerveteri."

"What is it?" asked Jennings.

"It is an old cemetery. From Etruscan times. Cimitero di Sant'Angelo."

The stiffened body of the priest trembled again, and he moaned as though trying to speak. But then he fell silent, a relaxation settling over him as he surrendered to the overpowering limitations of his body.