Slowly and dejectedly we quitted the monastery, as the sun was setting behind the hills of Sicily; and marching in silence towards Scylla, we reached a third time the place where Oliver’s glove and gorget had been found. There we made an involuntary halt, and gazed around us with the keenest scrutiny, in the hope of discovering some clue to the place of his immurement. My brave party seemed very unwilling to return to Scylla without making another effort to rescue the victim of Montecino. Innumerable were the ideas suggested and plans proposed; but none of them seemed worthy of attention, save one of Sergeant Gask’s. "The rascal mentioned a ruined vault among the hills," said he: "now what think you, Captain Dundas, of searching the ruins on the mountain yonder? And, by my faith, sir! the foot-marks and traces of blood lead off in that direction. See! the lower branches of the shrubs are broken, the withered leaves of the last year are trodden down, and bloody tracks are on the grass." "The sergeant is right, sir," muttered the soldiers, pleased with his acuteness. "Move on, then—forward to the old castle; any active occupation is preferable to this horrid state of idle suspense." A quarter of an hour’s rapid marching brought us to the castelletto, a little tower in a state of great dilapidation, covered with masses of bronze-like ivy, and the beautiful wild flowers of fruitful Italy. A large owl flew from one of the shattered openings, and with a shrill scream soared on its heavy wings through the evening sky. The woods and hills around us were growing dark; the place was still as the grave: the ivy leaves rustling tremulously on the rugged masonry of the ruin, and a rivulet tinkling through a fissure of a neighbouring rock, were the only sounds we heard. Solemn pines towered around it on every hand, and the aspect of the landscape was peculiarly desolate and gloomy. A musket was fired as a signal, and with a thousand reverberations the wooded hills gave back the echo. With heads bent to the ground, we listened intently; but there was no response, and we looked blankly in each other’s faces. "This cannot be the place," said I in a tone of sadness, about to move unwillingly away. "Stay, sir—look here, Captain Dundas," cried Gask; "here is blood on the grass, and, sure as I live, stones freshly heaped up there!" "Right—by Jove! Gask, you are an acute fellow. Pile your firelocks, lads, and clear away this heap of rubbish."