"Let us go up into this prison and see the empty cells." "Not now." "Why not? I am curious about old prisons; especially about church prisons; and can tell you how the dungeons of Solovetsk would look beside those of Seville, Antwerp, and Rome." "We can not enter; it is not allowed." "Not allowed to see empty cells! Were you not told to show me every part of the convent? Is there a place into which visitors must not come?" The two fathers step aside for a private talk, during which I feed the pigeons and hum a tune. "We can not go in there--at least, to-day." "Good!" I answer, in a careless tone; "get leave, and we will come this way to-morrow.... Stay! To-morrow we sail to Zaet. Why not go in at once and finish what we have yet to see down here?" They feel that time would be gained by going in now; but then, they have no keys. All keys are kept in the guardroom, under the lieutenant's eyes. More talk takes place between the monks; and doubt on doubt arises, as to the limit of their powers. Their visitor hums a tune, and throws more crumbs of bread among the doves, who frisk and flutter to his feet, until the windows are left quite bare. A father passes into a house; is absent some time; returns with an officer in uniform, carrying keys. While they are mounting steps and opening doors, the pilgrim goes on feeding doves, as though he did not care one whit to follow and see the cells. But when the doors roll back on their rusty hinges, he carelessly follows his guides up the prison steps. The first floor consists of a long dark corridor, underground; ten or twelve vaults arranged in a double row. These cells are dark and empty. The visitor enters them one by one, pokes the wall with his stick, and strikes a light in each, to be sure that no one lies there unobserved; telling the officer and the monks long yarns about underground vaults and wells in Antwerp, Rome, and Seville. Climbing the stairs to an upper floor, he finds a sentinel on duty, pacing a strong anteroom; and feels that here, at least, some prisoner must be kept under watch and ward. An iron-bound door is now unlocked, and the visitor passes with his guides into an empty corridor with cells on either side, corresponding in size and number with the vaults below. Every door in that corridor save one is open. That one door is closed and barred. "Some one in there?" "No one?" says the father; but in a puzzled tone of voice, and looking at the officer with inquiring eyes. "Well, yes; a prisoner," says that personage. "Let us go in. Open the door." Looking at the monks, and seeing no sign of opposition on their part, the soldier turns the key; and as we push the door back on its rusty hinge, a young man, tall and soldier-like, with long black beard and curious eyes, springs up from a pallet; and snatching a coverlet, wraps the loose garment round his all but naked limbs. "What is your name?" the visitor asks; going in at once, and taking him by the hand.