Forward again, betwixt pleasant greenswards tangled with fragrant gorse, brambles and unfurling bracken, within whose cool retreats the yellow-hammer lurks in his new spring bravery; while smart little goldfinches hunt in pairs amidst the thistle-heads under the hedgerow. Gradually we slant away downwards, passing an ancient tumulus whence, in the old war times, a beacon fire gave warning against threatened invasion; and catching glimpses ahead of ruined towers and curtain-walls, where time-honoured old Pembroke nods over its memories of 'the days that are no more.' Soon we are clattering through the diminutive village of Lamphey. Here we dismiss our driver, and, turning across park-like meadows where cattle are grazing under the broad-limbed oaks, we soon descry the ivy-mantled ruins of Lamphey Palace. The graceful character of the architecture, and calm, reposeful situation in this peaceful dell, combine to enhance the peculiar charm that hangs around these venerable ruins. Thanks to the timely care of their present owner, the remaining portions have been preserved from further desecration, and are freely shown to visitors who pass this way. [Illustration: AT LAMPHEY PALACE.] At Lamphey the Bishops of St. Davids possessed an episcopal manor, and built themselves a palace there; so that, from the middle of the thirteenth century, they paid frequent visits to the place. Withdrawing hither from affairs of State, they assumed the _rôle_ of the paternal country squire; tilling the fat acres spread around their walls, and stocking their snug granaries, such as may still be traced at the farmstead called Lamphey Park. John Leland, travelling this way in his tour through South Wales, tells how he 'came by meane Hills and Dales to Llanfeith, where the Bishop of St. Davids hath a place of Stoone, after Castel Fascion.' Strolling through a ripe old garden, set round with sheltering walls, we proceed to trace such features of the fine old fabric as the hand of Time has spared to us. Passing the refectory, a picturesque building draped in ivy and Virginia-creeper, we are confronted by the tall mass of the banqueting-hall, with its pointed windows and pretty projecting chimney. Hence a winding stair in the thickness of the wall leads to the ruined parapet. Near the east end of the hall stands the chapel, roofless now, and wreathed in luxuriant ivy; one graceful traceried window alone bearing witness to Bishop Vaughan's artistic genius. Farther away across a verdant meadow, and standing, so to speak, _en échelon_ to the main fabric, rise the ruins of the domestic apartments; approached by a dilapidated flight of outside steps, and crowned with an elegant open arcade such as is usually associated with the work of that famous builder, Bishop Gower. In a corner of the adjacent field we observe the vivarium, or fish-pond of the priory.