from the library (the entrance may still be seen) to the shore. The soldiers did not know this, and their host had omitted to inform them of the fact.

THE BANQUETING HALL

It is said that he was retaken years afterwards and deprived of his head; but there is another account that he made a compact with the devil and escaped again, this time on a black horse, one of His Satanic Majesty's own particular breed, that carried him safely over the sea to Aquileia, where horse and rider disappeared, and were seen no more.

The old man on the gray steed who is so cruelly trampling down four poor individuals very scantily clothed, is Napoleon I. Della Torre. One story says he rode over his own children in this way, but it is a base calumny; the children are four cities which he conquered for Milan, allegorically represented in the picture.

In the library I examined the entrance to the famous underground passage. You see a trap-door cleverly concealed in the wooden floor, and on lifting it, a small staircase leads you down to a very diminutive room, built in the thickness of the massive outer wall. On your left is the passage. It is very small—in fact, you have to proceed on your hands and knees, and after a few yards you are stopped by a quantity of stones and earth.

The father of "our host" wished to have the old passage reopened, and set people to work, but it seems they were so frightened at finding a number of human bones mixed with the soil and rubbish, that it was impossible to persuade them to work on. They said it would be dangerous to clear it, as the castle would inevitably fall in consequence—a mere excuse, of course. I think the mysterious passage must descend through the terrace tower which rises against the middle of the side of the castle that faces the sea, and come out somewhere in the "Riviera," meeting the old staircase spoken of in the preceding chapter.

THE RIVIERA

I must say this passage interested me much more than all the many books of the library, but I noticed an enormous old "missal," most elaborately painted by hand on parchment, a very valuable work of the fifteenth century.

There is a charming little recess in the library, where there are some beautiful miniatures, one or two fine old pastels, and some splendid old china; this corner would be a paradise for an antiquary.

A RECESS IN THE LIBRARY

A portrait of "Martin the Giant," a big man clad in armour, looks down threateningly from one of the dark corners of the room. He was a great warrior and statesman in his native Lombardy, but finally went off to the Crusades, and after showing great prowess, is said to have been taken and skinned alive by the Saracens (1147).

The walls of the drawing-room, next to the library, are covered with pictures, mostly of religious subjects. I suppose I ought to expatiate on them, but the artistic side of my nature is exhausted, and I should probably admire the wrong ones.

What I can safely speak of is the view from the large terrace over the afore-mentioned tower, where we used to have breakfast. It was charming to sit there in the early morning and look out upon that grand expanse of boundless sea, with the little wavelets dancing in the sunshine; it was almost cool too at that time of the morning.

·       ·       ·       ·       ·

Here the "energetic lady" remarks in an undertone that at this early hour she believes I was generally in bed, and that she did not remember having once seen me at breakfast on the terrace. Fortunately I can allow such remarks to pass unnoticed.

·       ·       ·       ·       ·

There is a mysterious charm about all these old rooms, they are so quiet, so restful, with their stained floors, their black oak carving, the tapestried hangings, and the old furniture. There are no bright colours, everything is subdued; no glare, always a sombre half-light. One feels inclined to walk softly in them, and speak in whispers, so as not to disturb their restfulness. There is something almost sad about their silence; they belong to a time long ago, not to the present day, and they seem to be waiting—waiting for the years that have passed to come again.