There is no breath to stir the old shadows, no voice nor hearing, only a still, solemn past telling, as we tread the pavement in the great Tower of London, its many stories that belong to that historic prison. In this scene of blackest crimes nothing remembered is half so sorrowful as the murder of the two Princes who were sent to the Tower by their uncle, Richard III., King of England. You have heard it, for it is an old tale and often told. He is usually called the Hunchback; some say he was not deformed, except in having a very short neck and one shoulder higher than the other. He was lame, but this defect was soon forgotten in the beauty of his face. He had pale olive skin, delicate features, smooth forehead, and proud lips quick to express the feeling which shone in his deep black eyes. His will was law, and he sprang on his enemies like the tiger on its prey if they were between him and his aims. In the first year of his reign he cleared away all who were suspected of plots, till no heirs to the throne were left except his two nephews, sons of Edward IV. The wicked heart of the Hunchback was moved to one more crime; then, he believed, the crown of England would be secured. They were graceful boys of eight and twelve years, with clear bright eyes, rosy cheeks, long flowing hair like threads of gold, and the courteous manner early taught to those who expect to rule a great nation. Edward, Prince of Wales, was stolen while on a journey; he was the elder; and Richard, Duke of York, the second son of the late King, was demanded of his mother, the widowed Queen of Edward IV. She was a high-born lady, famous for beauty when chosen from among the many who longed to sit on the throne. She was without power to resist, and how she begged the brutal Richard to be allowed to keep her youngest darling let other mothers tell. The little fellows were lodged in the Garden Tower, so called from its opening into pleasure-grounds with a terraced walk, which in sunny days gave to view the river and bridge. It was the cheerfulest room in the doleful pile, and was lighted on both sides, so the captives could watch what stir there was in the inner wards, and the shipping along the wharf and on the Thames. It had a separate entrance to the promenade, where in fine weather they had leave to run and play, chasing each other into forgetfulness that they were doomed never to leave their prison-house alive.