They tell tales of a traitor – traitor only to himself – who searches the tombs and catacombs for something. He cannot find it. Forget, he did, long ago, what it was he must search for, but keeps searching anyway, with something much smaller than a conviction that when he comes across it, he will recognise it as the object of his search. His proper life cannot begin until he has in his possession that for which he searches, yet he has spent almost all his life engaged upon this quest. He half recognises the futility of this task, yet cannot put it down, not least because he cannot find anything else to pick up that might serve to replace it… And this unhappy, futile search assumes the magnitude of a great, great sorrow, for he cannot be who he thinks he was destined to be at the start of it all unless he can find that for which he seeks.