lent all its magic, glittered many a stream, by which Etruscan and
Sybarite, Roman and Saracen and Norman, had, at intervals of ages,
pitched the invading tent. All the visions of the past the stormy and
dazzling histories of Southern Italy--rushed over the artist's mind as
he gazed below. And then, slowly turning to look behind, he saw the
gray and mouldering walls of the castle in which he sought the secrets
that were to give to hope in the Future a mightier empire than memory
owns in the Past. It was one of those baronial fortresses with which
Italy was studded in the earlier middle ages, having but little of the
Gothic grace of grandeur which belongs to the ecclesiastical
architecture of the same time; but rude, vast, and menacing even in
decay. A wooden bridge was thrown over the chasm, wide enough to admit
two horsemen abreast; and the planks trembled and gave back a hollow
sound as Glyndon urged his jaded steed across.

A road that had once been broad, and paved with rough flags, but which
now was half obliterated by long grass and rank weeds, conducted to the
outer court of the castle hard by; the gates were open, and half the
building in this part was dismantled, the ruins partially hid by ivy
that was the growth of centuries. But on entering the inner court,
Glyndon was not sorry to notice that there was less appearance of
neglect and decay: some wild roses gave a smile to the gray walls; and
in the centre there was a fountain, in which the waters still trickled
coolly, and with a pleasing murmur, from the jaws of a gigantic triton.
Here he was met by Mejnour with a smile.

"Welcome, my friend and pupil," said he; "he who seeks for Truth can
find in these solitudes an immortal Academe."