Mounting the broad staircase that ascended from the entrance hall,

they traversed the great wilderness of a house, through some obscure

passages, and came to a low, ancient doorway. It admitted them to a

narrow turret stair which zigzagged upward, lighted in its progress by

loopholes and iron-barred windows. Reaching the top of the first flight,

the Count threw open a door of worm-eaten oak, and disclosed a chamber

that occupied the whole area of the tower. It was most pitiably forlorn

of aspect, with a brick-paved floor, bare holes through the massive

walls, grated with iron, instead of windows, and for furniture an

old stool, which increased the dreariness of the place tenfold, by

suggesting an idea of its having once been tenanted.

"This was a prisoner's cell in the old days," said Donatello; "the

white-bearded necromancer, of whom I told you, found out that a certain

famous monk was confined here, about five hundred years ago. He was a

very holy man, and was afterwards burned at the stake in the Grand-ducal

Square at Firenze. There have always been stories, Tomaso says, of

a hooded monk creeping up and down these stairs, or standing in the

doorway of this chamber. It must needs be the ghost of the ancient

prisoner. Do you believe in ghosts?"

"I can hardly tell," replied Kenyon; "on the whole, I think not."

"Neither do I," responded the Count; "for, if spirits ever come back,

I should surely have met one within these two months past. Ghosts never

rise! So much I know, and am glad to know it!"

Following the narrow staircase still higher, they came to another room

of similar size and equally forlorn, but inhabited by two personages of

a race which from time immemorial have held proprietorship and occupancy

in ruined towers. These were a pair of owls, who, being doubtless

acquainted with Donatello, showed little sign of alarm at the entrance

of visitors. They gave a dismal croak or two, and hopped aside into the

darkest corner, since it was not yet their hour to flap duskily abroad.

"They do not desert me, like my other feathered acquaintances," observed

the young Count, with a sad smile, alluding to the scene which Kenyon

had witnessed at the fountain-side. "When I was a wild, playful boy, the

owls did not love me half so well."

He made no further pause here, but led his friend up another flight of

steps--while, at every stage, the windows and narrow loopholes afforded

Kenyon more extensive eye-shots over hill and valley, and allowed him

to taste the cool purity of mid-atmosphere. At length they reached the

topmost chamber, directly beneath the roof of the tower.

"This is my own abode," said Donatello; "my own owl's nest."

In fact, the room was fitted up as a bedchamber, though in a style of

the utmost simplicity. It likewise served as an oratory; there being

a crucifix in one corner, and a multitude of holy emblems, such as

Catholics judge it necessary to help their devotion withal. Several

ugly little prints, representing the sufferings of the Saviour, and the

martyrdoms of saints, hung on the wall; and behind the crucifix there

was a good copy of Titian's Magdalen of the Pitti Palace, clad only in

the flow of her golden ringlets. She had a confident look (but it was

Titian's fault, not the penitent woman's), as if expecting to win

heaven by the free display of her earthly charms. Inside of a glass case

appeared an image of the sacred Bambino, in the guise of a little waxen

boy, very prettily made, reclining among flowers, like a Cupid, and

holding up a heart that resembled a bit of red sealing-wax. A small vase

of precious marble was full of holy water.




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