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—CASTLE OF CIIILLON. 451—the little niche of rock on which they were seated oneafter one, <strong>and</strong> slaughtered for the good of the Church, whichit was feared their heresy might infect. We passed on, <strong>and</strong>entered the more spacious dungeon of Bonnivard.It lookednot unlike a chapel, with <strong>its</strong> groined roof <strong>and</strong> <strong>its</strong> centralrow of white pillars. <strong>The</strong> light was that of a deep twilight.We distinctly heard the ripple of the lake against the wall,which was on a level with the floor of the dungeon. At certainseasons of the year it is some feet above it. Two orthree narrow sl<strong>its</strong>, placed high in the wall, admitted the light,which had a greenishhue, from the reflection of the lake.This effect was rather heightened by the light breeze whichkept flappingthe broad leaf of some aquatic plant againstthe opening opposite the Martyr's Pillar. How sweet, wethought, must that ray have been to the Prior of St Victor,<strong>and</strong> how often, during his imprisonment of six years, musthis eyes have been turned towards it, as it streamed in fromthe waters <strong>and</strong> the mountains around his dungeon ! Wesaw the iron ring still remaining in the pillar to which hewas chained, <strong>and</strong> read on that pillar the names of Dryden<strong>and</strong> Byron, <strong>and</strong> others who had visited the place. <strong>The</strong>latter name recalled his own beautiful lines, descriptive ofthe place <strong>and</strong> <strong>its</strong> martyr :" Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place,And thy sad floor an altar ; for 'twas trodUntil his very steps have left a trace,Worn, as if the cold pavement were a sod.By Bonnivard ! JNIay none those marks efface IFor they appeal from tyranny to God."This dungeon had <strong>its</strong> one captive, <strong>and</strong> the image of sufferingit presented stood out definitely before us. <strong>The</strong> roomsabove had theirthous<strong>and</strong>s, <strong>and</strong> were suggestive of crowdsof victims, which passed before the mind without order oridentity. Of their names few remain, though the instrumentson which they were torn in pieces are still there.Emerging from the dayless gloom of the vault, we ascendedto these rooms. We entered one spacious apartment, which

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