The lonely Path.—The sequestered Vale.—The old House.—A Feudal
Castle.—A baronial Windmill.—A mysterious Sound.—A terrible
Discovery.—At Bay.—The Wild Beasts Lair!—What is It!—A great
Bore!

The path by which Clive and David returned to the hotel, went down a slope of the hill into a valley, and led over a second hill, beyond which was Albano. There were no houses visible, for the town was hidden by the hill, except, of course, the convent, which, from its conspicuous position, was never out of sight. As they descended into the valley, they came to a grove of olive trees; and beyond this there was a ruined edifice, built of stone, and apparently long since deserted. It was two stories in height, but the stories were high, and it looked as though it might once have been used, for a tower of some sort. The attention of both of the boys was at once arrested by it, and they stood and looked at it for some time.

"I wonder what it has been," said David.

"No doubt," said Clive, "it is the ruin of some mediaeval castle."

"It does not have much of the look of a castle."

"Why not?"

"O, why, there are no architectural features in it; no battlements; it has, in fact, a rather modern air."

"Not a bit of it," said Clive. "See those old stones grown over with moss; and look at the ivy."

"Yes, but look at the windows. They didn't have such large windows in castles, you know."

"Yes, but these windows were probably made afterwards. The place was once a castle; but at length, of course it became deserted, and began to fall to ruins. Then somebody fixed it tip for a dwelling-house, and made these windows in the walls."

"Well, that's not improbable."

"Not improbable! Why, I'm sure it's very natural. Look how thick the walls are!"

"They do seem pretty thick."

"O, they are real castle walls; there's no doubt at all about that," said Clive, in a positive tone. "Why, they are three feet thick, at least. And, you see, there are signs of an additional story having been above it."

"Yes, I dare say," said David, looking up. "The edges there look ragged, as though some upper portion has been knocked off."

"And I dare say it's been a great place for brigands," said Clive.

"O, bother brigands," said David. "For my part, I begin to think not only that there are no brigands now, but even that there never have been any such people at all.

"Well, I won't go as far as that," said Clive, "but I certainly begin to have my doubts about them."

"They're all humbugs," said David.

"All of our brigands have been total failures," said Clive.

"Yes," said David; "they all turned out to be the most amiable people in the world. But come; suppose we go inside, and explore this old ruin. It may be something famous. I wish the guide were, here."

"O, well look at it first all over, and then ask at the hotel."

"Yes, that's the way."

"But have we time?"

"O, of course; it won't take us five minutes."

Upon this Clive started off for the ruined structure, followed by David.

It was, as has been said, two stories in height. In the lower story was a small, narrow doorway. The door was gone. There were no windows, and it was quite dark inside. It was about twelve feet wide, and fifteen feet long. At one end were some piles of fagots heaped together. The height was about fifteen feet. Before them they saw a rude ladder, running up to the story above. Its feet rested near the back of the room. There was no floor to the house, but only the hard-packed earth.

"There's nothing here," said David, looking around.

"Let's go into the upper story," said Clive.

To this proposal David assented quite readily; and accordingly they both entered, and walked towards the ladder. Clive ascended first, and David followed. In a few moments they were in the upper story.

Here it was light, for there were two windows in front. There was a floor, and the walls were plastered. Fragments of straw lay about, intermingled with chaff, as though the place had been used for some sort of a store-house.

Overhead there were a number of heavy beams, which seemed too numerous and complicated to serve merely for the support of a roof; and among them was one large, round beam, which ran across. At this both of the boys stared very curiously.

"I wonder what all that can be for," asked David.

"O, no doubt," said Clive, "it's some of the massive wood-work of the old castle."

"But what was the good of it?"

"Why, to support the roof, of course," said Clive.

"Yes, but there is too much. They would never have needed all that to support so small a roof. It's a waste of timber."

"O, well, you know you mustn't expect the same ingenuity in an
Italian builder that you would in an American."

"I don't know about that. Why not? Do you mean to say that the Italians are inferior to the Americans in architecture? Pooh, man! in America there is no architecture at all; while here, in every little town, they have some edifice that in America would be considered something wonderful."

"O, well, you know they are very clumsy in practical matters, in spite of their Artistic superiority. But apart from that I've just been thinking that this is only a part of some large castle, and this lumber work was, perhaps, once the main support of a massive roof. So, after all, it would have its use."

David said nothing for some time. He was looking earnestly at the wood-work.

"I'll tell you what it is," said he, at last. "I've got it. It isn't a castle at all. It's a windmill."

"A windmill!" exclaimed Clive, contemptuously. "What nonsense!
It's an old tower—the keep of some mediaeval castle."

"It's a windmill!" persisted David. "Look at that big beam. It's round. See in one corner those projecting pieces. They were once part of some projecting wheel. Why, of course, it's a windmill. The other end of that cross-beam goes outside for the fans to be attached to it. This big cross-beam was the shaft. Of course that's it."

Clive looked very much crest-fallen at this. He was unable to disprove a fact of which the evidences were now so plain; but he struggled to maintain a little longer the respectability of his feudal castle.

"Well," said he, "I dare say it may have been used afterwards for a windmill; but I am sure it was originally built as a baronial hall, some time during the middle ages. Afterwards it began to go to ruin; and then, I dare say, some miller fellow has taken possession of the keep, and torn off the turrets and battlements, and rigged up this roof with the beams, and thus turned it into a windmill."

"O, well, you may be right," said David. "Of course it's impossible to tell."

"O, but I'm sure of it," said Clive, positively.

David laughed.

"O, then," said he, "in that case, I've got nothing to say about it at all."

In spite of his reiterated conviction in the baronial castle, Clive was unable to prevent an expression of disgust from being discernible on his fine face, and without another word, he turned to go down.

David followed close after him.

As Clive put his feet down on the nearest rung of the ladder, he was startled by a noise below. It came from the pile of fagots, and was of the most extraordinary character. It was a shuffling, scraping, growling, snapping noise; an indescribable medley of peculiar sounds.

Clive instantly drew back his foot, as though he had trodden on a snake.

"What's the matter?" cried David, in amazement.

"Didn't you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"Why, that noise!"

"Noise?"

"Yes."

"What noise?"

Clive's eyes opened wide, and he said in a low, agitated whisper,—

"Something's down there!"

At this David's face turned pale. He knelt down at the opening, and bent his head over.

The sounds, which had ceased for a moment, became once more audible. There was a quick, beating, rustling, rubbing noise among the fagots, and he could occasionally hear the rap of footfalls on the floor. It was too dark to see anything, for the narrow door was the only opening, and the end of the chamber where the fagots lay was wrapped in deep gloom.

Clive knelt down too, and then both boys, kneeling there, listened eagerly and intently with all their ears.

"What is it?" asked Clive.

"I'm rare I don't know," said David, gloomily.

"Is it a brigand?" whispered Clive, dismally.

"I don't know, I'm sore," said poor David, who, in spite of his recent declaration of his belief that all brigands were humbugs, felt something like his old trepidation at Clive's suggestion.

They listened a little longer.

The noise subsided for a time, and then began again. This time it was much louder than before. There was the same rustling, rubbing, cracking, snapping sound made by something among the fagots; there was a clatter as of feet on the hard ground; then there was a quick, reiterated rubbing; then another peculiar noise, which sounded exactly like that which a dog makes when shaking himself violently after coming out of the water. After this there was a low, deep sound, midway between a yawn and a growl; then all was still.

David and Clive raised themselves softly, and looked at one another.

"Well?" said Clive.

"Well?" said David.

"I don't know," said Clive.

"I don't know," said David.

"What shall we do?" said Clive.

David shook his head. Then, looking down the opening once more, he again raised his eyes, and fixing them with an awful look on Clive, he said, in a dismal tone,—

"It's not a brigand!"

"No," said Clive, "I don't think it is, either."

David looked down again; then he looked up at Clive with the same expression, and said in the same dismal tone as before,—

"Clive!"

"Well?"

"It's a wild beast!"

Clive looked back at David with eyes that expressed equal horror, and said not a word.

"Don't you think so?" asked David.

"Yes," said Clive.

Then:—

"How can we get down?" said David.
do. said Clive.

"I, don't know!" said David.
do. said Clive.

Once more the boys put their heads down to the hole and listened.
The noises were soon renewed—such noises as,—
Snapping, with variations.
cracking, " do.
deep-breathing, " do.
scratching, " do.
sighing, " do.
yawning, " do.
growling, " do.
grunting, " do.
smacking, " do.
thumping, " do.
jerking, " do.
rattling, " do.
pushing, with variations,
sliding, " do.
shaking, " do.
jerking, " do.
twitching, " do.
groaning, " do.
pattering, " do.
rolling, " do.
rubbing, " do.
together with many more of a similar character, all of which went
to indicate to the minds of both of the boys the presence in that
lower chamber, and close by that pile of fagots, of some animal,
in a state of wakefulness, restlessness, and, as they believed, of
vigilant watchfulness and ferocity.

"I wonder how it got there," said David. "That olive grove—that's it—O, that's it. He saw us come in here, and followed us."

"I don't know," said Clive. "He may have been among the fagots when we came in, and our coming has waked him."

"I wonder that the guide didn't warn us."

"O, he never thought, I suppose."

"No; he thought we would keep by the path, and go straight to the hotel."

"What fools we were!"

"Well, it can't be helped now."

"I wonder what it is," said Clive, after another anxious pause.

"A wild beast," said David, dismally.

"Of course; but what kind of a one?"

"It may be a wolf."

"I wonder if there are many wolves about here."

"Wolves? Of course. All Italy is fall of them."

"Yes, but this beast has hard feet. Don't you hear what a noise he makes sometimes with his feet? A wolf's feet are like a dog's. I'm afraid it's something even worse than a wolf."

"Something worse?"

"Yes."

"What can be worse?"

"Why, a wild boar. Italy is the greatest country in the world for wild boars."

After this there followed a long period of silence and despondency.

Suddenly Clive grasped the upper part of the ladder, and began to pull at it with all his might.

"What are you trying to do?" asked David.

"Why, we might draw up the ladder, and put it out of one of the windows, you know, and get out that way—mightn't we?"

"I don't know," said David. "We might try."

Upon this both boys seized the ladder, and tried to pull it from its place. But their efforts were entirely in vain. The ladder was clumsily made out of heavy timbers, and their puny efforts did not avail to move it one single inch from its place. So they soon desisted, and turned away in despair. Clive then went to one of the windows, and looked down. David followed him. They looked out for some time in silence.

"Couldn't we let ourselves drop somehow?" asked Clive.

David shook his head.

"It's nearly twenty feet from the window ledge," said he, "and I'm afraid one of us might break some of our bones."

"O, it's not so very far," said Clive. "Yes, but if we were to drop, that wild boar would hear us, and rush out in a moment."

At this terrible suggestion, Clive turned away, and regarded David with his old look of horror.

"It's no use trying," said David; "that horrible wild boar waked up when we entered his den. He saw us going up, and has been watching ever since for us to come down. They are the most ferocious, most pitiless, and most cruel of all wild beasts. Why; if we had the ladder down from the window, and could get to the ground, he'd pounce upon us before we could get even as far as the path."

Clive left the window, and sat down in despair, leaning against the wall, while David stood staring blankly out into vacancy. Their position was now not merely an embarrassing one. It seemed dangerous in the extreme. From this place they saw no sign of any human habitation. They could not see the convent. Albano was hidden by the hill already spoken of; nor had they any idea how far away it might be. This path over which they had gone had not appeared like one which was much used; and how long it might be before any passers-by would approach was more than they could tell.

"Well," said Clive, "we've lost our dinner, and it's my firm belief that we'll lose our tea, too."

David made no reply.

Clive arose, and walked over to him.

"Dave," said he, "look here. I'm getting desperate. I've a great mind to go down the ladder as quietly as possible, and then run for it."

"No, don't—don't," cried David, earnestly.

"Well, I'm not going to stay here and starve to death," said Clive.

"Pooh! don't be impatient," said David. "Of course they'll hunt us up, and rescue us. Only wait a little longer."

"Well, I don't know. If they don't come soon, I'll certainly venture down."

After an hour or so, during which no help came, Clive did as he said, and, in spite of David's remonstrances, ventured down. He went about half way. Then there was a noise of so peculiar a character that he suddenly retreated up again, and remarked to David, who all the time had been watching him in intense anxiety, and begging him to come back,—

"Well, Dave, perhaps I'd better wait They ought to be here before long."

So the two prisoners waited.