Willoughton surveyed the place, but not a vestige of the building remained. “Here then,” said he, “the unhappy Edward the Second was, for a while, imprisoned, before he was removed to Corfe and Berkeley Castles, his last abodes.” “If you please, Sir,” said the man, “the chaise is at the gate; and, if you will take my advice, you will not stay here long, for I cannot say I like it myself; I shall begin to think I see that strange figure again, and I had rather not.” “Well, let us go,” said Mr. Simpson, “or I shall begin to fancy something of the same sort, too. What did you say, it had a mask on its face?” “Yes, Sir, and a drawn sword in its hand; but I don’t like the place, Sir, let us go.” “Ay, ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “let us go; we—we—we shall not get to Warwick to-night.” A laugh from his friend, which he too well understood, both vexed and ashamed him. “I did not think it possible,” said he, “that I could have yielded to the contagion of this folly thus; remember, however, it is not Elizabeth in her ruff and farthingale, that I fear, nor any thing else distinctly.” Willoughton laughed again triumphantly. “Better and better; your feelings are true to my arguments, in spite of your own. I desire no farther proof of the effects of time and circumstances—of solitude and obscurity on the imagination.” As they passed by Cæsar’s tower, and inquired where the line of the castle-ditch had been traced, he observed, that probably the chief entrance had at first been over a draw-bridge to that tower, though now no sign of it could be distinguished. When the travellers were once more seated in the chaise, Mr. Simpson betook himself to sleep; while, on their journey of four miles through the checkered moonlight of woody lanes to Warwick, Willoughton did not lament the silence of his friend, which left him to the quiet musings of his own mind, and to the peace of nature, reposing under this soft and beautiful shade. The air was so still that scarcely a leaf trembled of the lofty boughs that overshadowed the road; and when the postilion stopped to make some alteration of the harness, the breathing of the horses alone was heard through all this scene of night. There is a peace of the spirits, which has surely somewhat holy in it. Such is the calmness which the view of a midsummer-dawn communicates, or that of moonlight on woods and green plains; and such Willoughton experienced during this short ride, till he drew near Warwick, when the beautiful towers of Saint Mary’s appeared on the right, and the more lofty and distant ones of the castle on the left of the perspective; and these awakened the stronger interest of expectation.